


.5^ ;■ .< 














































MRS, OVERTHEWAY’S 


REMEMBRANCES. 



Fro7ttispUce, 


THE ALBATROSS'3 NEST. 


Page 261 


MRS. OVERTHEWAY’S 


REMEMBRANCES. 


BY 

JULIANA HORATIA EWING, 

/author of “we and the world,’’ “six to sixteen,” “jan of the 

WINDMILL,” “a great EMERGENCY,” ETC. 


ffilillj. ®en lllttrfraiions 

BY y. A. PA SQUIBB AND y, WOLF.. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 

1889. 




Jii Exciianie 


OUrlin College Library 

CEC X ^ 


0 P-- SI' % ' 


ife' 


^0 mg JllusbantJ 

A. E. 

IN REMEMBRANCE 
1 866 AND 1867. 




OF 

J. H. E 


UNIFORM LIBRARY EDITIONS 

OF 

MRS. EWING’S STORIES. 

IN NINE VOLUMES. 


JAN OF THE WINDMILL. 

A Story of the Plains. With illustrations by Mrs. Allingham 
l6mo. Cloth. 50 cents. 

SIX TO SIXTEEN. 

A Story for Girls. With 10 illustrations by Helen Patterson 
i6mo. Cloth. 50 cents. 

A GREAT EMERGENCY, and Other Tales. 

With illustration. i6mo. Cloth. 50 cents. 

WE AND THE WORLD. 

A Story for Boys. With 10 illustrations. i6mo. Cloth. 50 cts. 

MRS. OVERTHEWAY’S REMEMBRANCES. 

Ten illustrations i6rno. Cloth. 50 cts. A Series of Short 
Stories which are supposed to be told by a nice old lady to a little 
girl invalid. 

JACKANAPES, and Other Tales. 

Comprising Jackanapes,” Daddy Darwin^s Dovecot,” and 
**The Story of a Short Life.” With a sketch of Mrs. Ewing’s 
Life, by her sister, Horatia K. F. Gatty. With portrait and illus- 
trations. i6mo. Cloth. 50 cents. 

MELCHIOR’S DREAM, BROTHERS OE PITY, and 
Other Tales. 

♦ 

With illustrations. i6mo. Cloth. 50 cents. 

LOB LIEBY-THE-FIRE, THE BROWNIES, and 
Other Tales. 

With illustrations by George Cruikshank. i6mo. Cloth. 
50 cents. 

A FLATIRON FOR A FARTHING. 

With illustrations. i6mo. Cloth. Price, 50 cents. 



MRS. MOSS ... . . t . . - SI 

THE SNORING GHOST . 8l 

- REKA DOM . - , • . , J 43 

KERGUELEN’S LAND , • • • • . • • 249 





LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGB 

THE albatross’s NEST , . , Frontispiece, 

THE PRIMROSES , , l6 

MR. JOSEPH 53 

WATCHING CLOUDS QI 

THE IRISH GENTLEMAN , 122 

THE SNORING GHOST I35 

TEA WITH MRS. OVERTHEWAY . • * • . 1 50 

THE STONE AMONG THE LILIES I95 

THE LONDON MERCHANT 213 

IN THE STUDY ' . , , 235 


The Frontispiece is by"]. Wolf ; the other Illustrations 
by J. A. Pasquier. 


I D A, 


, , , . “Tliou shah not lack 
rhe flowe. that’s like thv face, pale Primrose.” 

Cymb€itn<f 


MRS. OVERTHEWAFS REMEMBRANCES. 


IDA. 


HE little old lady lived over the way, through a 



green gate that shut with a click, and up three 
white steps. Every morning at eight o’clock the church 
bell chimed for Morning Prayer — chim ! chime ! chim ! 
chime ! — and every morning at eight o’clock the little 
old lady came down the white steps, and opened the 
gate with a click, and went where the bells were 
calling. 

About this time also little Ida would kneel on a 
chair at her nursery window in the opposite house to 
watch the old lady come out and go. The old lady 
was one of those people who look always the same. 
Every morning her cheeks looked like faded rose- 
leaves, and her white hair like a snow-wreath in a 
garden laughing at the last tea-rose. Every morning 
she wore the same black satin bonnet, and the same 


4 MI^S. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


white shawl; had delicate gloves on the smallest of 
hands, and gathered her skirt daintily up from the 
smallest of feet. Every morning she carried a clean 
pocket-handkerchief, and a fresh rose in the same hand 
with her Prayer-book ; and as the Prayer-book being 
bound up with the Bible was very thick, she seemed 
to have some difficulty in so doing. Every morning, 
whatever the weather might be, she stood outside the 
green gate, and looked up at the sky to see if this were 
clear, and down at the ground to see if that were dry ; 
and so went where the bells were calling. 

Ida knew the little old lady quite well by sight, but 
she did not know her name. Perhaps Ida’s great- 
uncle knew it ; but he was a grave, unsociable man, 
who saw very little of his neighbours, so perhaps he 
did not ; and Ida stood too much in awe of him to 
trouble him with idle questions. She had once asked 
Nurse, but Nurse did not know ; so the quiet orphan 
child asked no more. She made up a name for the 
little old lady herself, however, after the manner of Mr. 
John Bunyan, and called her Mrs. Overtheway; and 
morning after morning, though the brcad-and-milk 
breakfast smoked upon the table, she would linger at 
the window, beseeching — 


IDA. 


5 


One minute more, dear Nurse ! Please let me wait 
till Mrs. Overtheway has gone to church.” 

And when the little old lady had come out and gone, 
j.da would creep from her perch, and begin her break 
fast. Then, if the chimes went on till half the basinful 
was eaten, little Ida would nod her head contentedly, 
and whisper : 

Mrs. Overtheway was in time.” 

Little Ida's history was a sad one. Her troubles 
began when she was but a year old, with the greatest 
of earthly losses — for then her mother died, leaving a 
sailor husband and their infant child. The sea-captain 
could face danger, but not an empty home ; so he went 
back to the winds and the waves, leaving his little 
daughter with relations. Six long years had he been 
away, and Ida had had many homes, and yet, some- 
how, no home, when one day the postman brought her 
a large letter, with her own name written upon it in a 
large hand. This was no old envelope sealed up 
again — no make-believe epistle to be put into the post 
throtigh the nursery door ; it was a real letter, with a 
real seal, real stamps, and a great many post-marks ; and 
when Ida opened it there were two sheets written by 
the Captain's very own hand, in round fat characters, 


6 MRS. OVERTHEWAV^S REMEMBRANCES. 


easy to read, with a sketch of the Captain^s very own 
ship at the top, and — most welcome above all ! — the 
news that the Captain’s very own self was coming home. 

“ I shall have a papa all to myself very soon, Nurse,” 
said Ida. He has written a letter to me, and made 
me a picture of his ship ; it is the Bonne Esperance, 
which he says means Good Hope. I love this letter 
better than anything he has ever sent me.” 

Nevertheless, Ida took out the carved fans and 
workboxes, the beads, and handkerchiefs, and feathers, 
the dainty foreign treasures the sailor-father had sent to 
her from time to time ; dusted them, kissed them, and 
told them that the Captain was coming home. But 
the letter she wore in her pocket by day, and kept 
under her pillow by night. 

“Why don’t you put your letter into one of your 
boxes, like a tidy young lady. Miss Ida? ” said Nurse. 
“ You’ll wear it all to bits doing as you do.” 

“ It will last till the ship comes home,” said Miss 
Ida. 

It had need then to have been written on the rock, 
graven with an iron pen for ever; for the Bonne 
Esperance (like other earthly hopes) had perished to 
return no more. She foundered on her homeward 


IjD^. 


7 


voyage, and went down into the great waters, whilst 
Ida slept through the stormy night, with the Captain’s 
letter beneath her pillow. 

Alas ! Alas ! Alas ! 

« # * # # 

Two or three months had now passed away since 
Ida became an orphan. She had become accustomed 
to the crape-hung frock ; she had learnt to read the 
Captain’s letter as the memorial of a good hope which 
it had pleased God to disappoint ; she was fairly happy 
again. It was in the midst of that new desolation in 
her lonely life that she had come to stay with her 
great-uncle, and had begun to watch the doings of the 
little old lady who lived over the way. When dolls 
seemed vanity, and Noah’s Ark a burden, it had been 
a quiet amusement, demanding no exertion, to see 
what little she could see of the old lady’s life, and to 
speculate about what she could not ; to wonder and 
fancy what Mrs. Overtheway looked like without her 
bonnet, and what she did with herself when she was 
not at church. Ida’s imagination did not carry her 
far. She believed her friend to be old, immeasurably 
old, indefinitely old ; and had a secret faith that she 
had never been otherwise. She felt sure that she wore 


8 MRL. OVERTHEWAYS REMEMBRANCES. 


a cap indoors, and that it was a nicer one than Nurse’s ; 
that she had real tea, with sugar and cream, instead of 
milk-and-water, and hot toast rather than bread-and- 
treacle for tea ; that she helped herself at meals, and 
went to bed according to her own pleasure and con- 
venience; was — perhaps on these very grounds — 
utterly happy, and had always been so. 

I am only a little girl,” said Ida, as she pressed her 
face sadly to the cold window-pane. ‘‘I am only a 
little girl, and very sad, you know, because papa was 
drowned at sea ; but Mrs. Overtheway is very old, and 
always happy, and so I love her.” 

And in this there was both philosophy and truth. 

It is a mistake to suppose that the happiness of others 
is always a distasteful sight to the sad at heart. There 
are times in which life seems shorn of interests and be- 
reaved of pleasure, when it is a relief, almost amounting 
to consolation, to believe that any one is happy. It 
is some feeling t)f this nature, perhaps, which makes 
the young so attractive to the old. It soothes like 
the sound of harmonious music, the sight of harmo- 
nious beauty. It witnesses to a conviction lying deep 
even in the most afflicted souls that (come what 
may), all things were created good, and man made to 


IDA, 


9 


be blessed; before which sorrow and sighing flee 
away. 

This was one of many things which formed the at- 
traction for Ida in the little old lady who lived over 
the way. That green gate shut in a life of which the 
child knew nothing, and which might be one of mys- 
terious delights ; to believe that such things could be 
was consoling, and to imagine them was real entertain- 
ment. Ida would sometimes draw a chair quietly to 
the table beside her own, and fancy that Mrs. Over- 
theway was having tea with her. She would ask the 
old lady if she had been in time for church that morn- 
ing, beg her to take off her bonnet, and apologize 
politely for the want of hot tea and toast. So far all 
was well, for Ida could answer any of these remarks 
on Mrs. Overtheway’s behalf; but it may be believed 
that after a certain point this one-sided conversation 
flagged. One day Nurse overheard Ida^s low murmurs. 

‘‘ What are you talking about, Miss Ida ? ” said she. 

“ I am pretending to have Mrs. Overtheway to tea,” 
said Ida. 

“Little girls shouldn’t pretend what’s not true,” 
replied Nurse, in whose philosophy fancy and false- 
hood were not distinguished. “ Play with your dolls, 


10 MRS, OVERTHEWATS REMEMBRANCES. 


my dear, and don’t move the chairs out of their 
places.” 

With which Nurse carried off the chair into a 
corner as if it had been a naughty child, and Ida gave 
up her day-dream with a sigh ; since to have prolonged 
the fancy that Mrs. Overtheway was present, she must 
have imagined her borne off at the crisis of the meal 
after a fashion not altogether consistent with an old 
lady’s dignity. 

Summer passed, and winter came on. There were 
days when the white steps looked whiter than usual ; 
when the snowdrift came halfway up the little green 
gate, and the snow-flakes came softly down with a 
persistency which threatened to bury the whole town. 
Ida knew that on such days Mrs. Overtheway could 
not go out ; but whenever it was tolerably fine the old 
lady appeared as usual, came daintily down the steps, 
and went where the bells were calling. Chim ! chime ! 
chim ! chime ! They sounded so near through the 
frosty air, that Ida could almost have fancied that the 
church was coming round through the snowy streets to 
pick up the congregation. 

Mrs. Overtheway looked much the same in winter 
as in summer. She seemed as fresh and lively as 


IDA, 


II 


ever, carried her Prayer-book and handkerchief in the 
same hand, was only more warmly wrapped up, and 
wore fur-lined boots ivhich were charming. There 
was one change, however, which went to Ida’s heart. 
The little old lady had no longer a flower to take to 
church with her. At Christmas she took a sprig of 
holly, and after that a spray of myrtle, but Ida felt 
that these were poor substitutes for a rose. She knew 
that Mrs. Overtheway had flowers somewhere, it is 
true, for certain pots of forced hyacinths had passed 
through the little green gate to the Christmas church 
decorations ; but one’s winter garden is too precious 
to be cropped as recklessly as summer rose-bushes, 
and the old lady went flowerless to church and en- 
joyed her bulbs at home. But the change went to Ida’s 
heart. 

Spring was early that year. At the beginning of 
February there was a good deal of snow on the ground, 
it is true, but the air became milder and milder, and 
towards the end of the month there came a real spring 
day, and all the snow was gone. 

“You may go and play in the garden, Miss Ida,” 
said Nurse, and Ida went. 

She had been kept indoors for a long time by the 


12 MRS. OVERTHEWArS REMEMBRANCES. 


weather and by a cold, and it was very pleasant to get 
out again, even when the only amusement was to run 
up and down the shingly walks and wonder how soon 
she might begin to garden, and whether the gardener 
could be induced to give her a piece of ground suffi- 
ciently extensive to grow a crop of mustard-and-cress 
in the form of a capital I. It was the kitchen garden 
into which Ida had been sent. At the far end it was 
cut off from the world by an overgrown hedge with 
large gaps at the bottom, through which Ida could see 
the high road, a trough for watering horses, and beyond 
this a wood. The hedge was very thin in February, 
and Ida had a good view in consequence, and sitting 
on a stump in the sunshine she peered through the 
gap to see if any horses came to drink. It was as 
good as a peep-show, and indeed much better. 

“ The snow has melted,’’ gurgled the water, “ here I 
am.” It was everywhere. The sunshine made the 
rich green mosses look dry, but in reality they were 
wet, and so was everything else. Slish ! slosh 1 Put 
your feet where you would, the water was everywhere. 
It filled the stone trough, which, being old and grey 
and steady, kept it still, and bade it reflect the blue 
sky and the gorgeous mosses ; but the trough soon 


IDji. 


13 


overflowed, and then the water slipped over the side, 
and ran off in a wayside stream. “ Winter is gone ! '* 
it spluttered as it ran. “Winter is gone, winter- 
is-gone, winterisgone ! ” And, on the principle that 
a good thing cannot be said too often, it went on 
with this all through the summer, till the next wintei 
came and stopped its mouth with icicles. As the 
stream chattered, so the birds in the wood sang, — 
Tweet ! tweet ! chirrup 1 throstle ! Spring ! Spring ! 
Spring ! — and they twittered from tree to tree, and 
shook the bare twigs with melody; whilst a single 
blackbird sitting still upon a bough below, sang 
“Life!” “Life!” “Life!” with the loudest pipe of his 
throat, because on such a day it was happiness only 
to be alive. 

It was like a wonderful fairy-tale, to which Ida 
listened with^clasped hands. 

Presently another song came from the wood ; it was 
a hymn sung by children's voices, such as one often 
hears carolled by a troop of little urchins coming home 
from school. The words fell familiarly on Ida's ears : 

Quite through the streets, with silver sound, 

The flood of life doth flow ; 

Upon whose banks on every side 
The wood of life doth grow. 


14 MRS. OVERTIJEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


Thy gardens and thy gallant walks 
Continually are green ; 

There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers 
As nowhere else are seen. 

TheiC trees for evermore bear fruit, 

And evermore do spring ; 

There evermore the Angels sit, 

And evermore do sing. 

Here the little chorus broke off, and the children came 
pouring out of the wood with chattering and laughter. 
Only one lingered, playing under a tree, and finishing 
the song. The child^s voice rose shrill and clear like 
that of the blackbird above him. He also sang of 
Life — Eternal life — knowing little more than the bird 
of the meaning of his song, and having little less of 
that devotion of innocence in which happiness is 
praise. 

But Ida had ceased to listen to the singing. Her 
whole attention was given to the children as they 
scampered past the hedge, dropping bits of moss and 
fungi and such like woodland spoil. For, tightly held 
in the grubby hands of each — plucked with reckless 
indifference to bud and stalk, and fading fast in their 
hot prisons — were primroses. Ida started to her feet, 
a sudden idea filling her brain. The birds were right, 


IDA. 


15 


Spring had come, and there were flowers for 

Mrs. Overtheway. 

Ida was a very quiet, obedient little girl as a general 
rule; indeed, in her lonely life she had small temp- 
tation to pranks or mischief of any kind. She had often 
been sent to play in the back garden before, and had 
never thought of straying beyond its limits ; but to-day 
a strong new feeling had been awakened by the sight 
of the primroses. 

‘‘The hole is very large, said Ida, looking at the 
gap in the hedge ; “ if that dead root in the middle 
were pulled up, it would be wonderfully large.” 

She pulled the root up, and, though wonderful is a 
strong term, the hole was certainly larger. 

“ It is big enough to put one’s head through,” said 
Ida, and, stooping down, she exemplified the truth of 
her observation. 

“ Where the head goes, the body will follow,” they 
say, and Ida’s little body was soon on the other side 
of the hedge ; the adage says nothing about clothes, 
however, and part of Ida’s dress was left behind. It 
had caught on the stump as she scrambled through. 
But accidents will happen, and she was in the road, 
which was something. 


i6 MRS, OVERTHEWATS REMEMBRANCES. 


“ It is like going into the world to seek one’s for-i 
tune,” she thought; ‘‘thus Gerda went to look for 
little Kay, and so Joringel sought for the enchanted 
flower. One always comes to a wood.” 

And into the wood she came. Dame Nature had 
laid down her new green carpets, and everything 
looked lovely; but, as has been before said, it cer- 
tainly was damp. The little singer under the tree 
cared no more for this, however, than the blackbird 
above him. 

“ Will you tell me, please, where you got your prim 
roses ? ” asked Ida. 

The child made a quaint, half-military salute, and 
smiled. 

“Yonder,” he said laconically, and, pointing up the 
wood, he went on with the song that he could not 
understand ; 

Ah, my sweet home, Jerusalem, 

Would God I were in thee ! 

Would God my woes were at an end, 

Thy joys that I might see 1 

Ida went on and on, looking about her as she ran. 
Presently the wood sloped downwards, and pretty 
steeply, so that it was somewhat of a scramble; yet 
still she kept a sharp look-out, but no primroses did 



THE PRIMROSES. 


Page i6. 









IDA. 


17 


she see, except a few here and there upon the ground, 
which had been plucked too close to their poor heads 
to be held in anybody’s hands. These showed the 
way, however, and Ida picked them up in sheer pity 
and carried them with her. 

This is how Hop-o’-my-thumb found his way home,” 
she thought. 

At the bottom of the hill ran a little brook, and on 
the opposite side of the brook was a bank, and on the 
top of the bank was a hedge, and under the hedge were 
the primroses. But the brook was between ! 

Ida looked and hesitated. It was too wide to jump 
across, and here, as elsewhere, there was more water 
than usual. To turn back, however, was out of the 
question. Gerda would not have been daunted in her 
search by coming to a stream, nor would any one else 
that ever was read of in fairy tales. It is true that in 
Fairy-land there are advantages which cannot always 
be reckoned upon by commonplace children in this 
commonplace world. When the straw, the coal, and 
the bean came to a rivulet in their travels, the straw 
laid himself across as a bridge for the others, and had 
not the coal been a degree too hot on that unlucky 
occasion, they might (for anything Ida knew to the 
c 


1 8 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


contrary) still have been pursuing their journey in 
these favourable circumstances. But a travelling- 
companion who expands into a bridge on an emergency 
is not to be met with every day ; and as to poor Ida 
— she was alone. She stood first on one leg, and then 
on the other, she looked at the water, and then at the 
primroses, and then at the water again, and at last 
perceived that in one place there was a large, flat, 
moss-covered stone in the middle of the stream, which 
stood well out of the water, and from which — could 
she but reach it — she might scramble to the opposite 
bank. But how to reach it ? that nice, large, secure, 
comfortable-looking stone. 

“I must put some more stones,'* thought Ida. 
There were plenty in the stream, and Ida dragged 
them up, and began to make a ford by piling them 
together. It was chilly work, for a cloud had come 
over the sun ; and Ida was just a little bit frightened 
by the fresh-water shrimps, and some queer, many- 
legged beasts, who shot off the stones as she lifted 
them. At last the ford was complete. Ida stepped 
daintily over the bridge she had made, and jumped 
triumphantly on to the big stone. Alas ! for trusting 
to appearances. The stone that looked so firm, was 


IDA 


19 


insecurely balanced below, and at the first shock one 
side went down with a splash, and Ida went with it. 
What a triumph for the shrimps ! She scrambled to 
the bank, however, made up a charming bunch of 
primroses, and turned to go home. Never mind how 
she got back across the brook. We have all waded 
streams before, now, and very good fun it is in June, 
but rather chilly work in February ; and, in spite of 
running home, Ida trembled as much with cold as 
with excitement when she stood at last before Mrs. 
Overthe way’s green gate. 

Click 1 Ida went up the white steps, marking them 
sadly with her wet feet, and gave a valiant rap. The 
door was opened, and a tall, rather severe-looking 
housekeeper asked ; 

“ What do you want, my dear?’’ 

A shyness, amounting to terror, had seized upon 
Ida, and she could hardly find voice to answer. 

‘‘ If you please, I have brought these for 

For whom? Ida’s pale face burnt crimson as she 
remembered that after all she did not know the little 
old lady’s name. Perhaps the severe housekeeper 
was touched by the sight of the black frock, torn as it 
was, for she gaid kindly : 


20 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


“Don’t be frightened, my dear. What do you 
want ? ” 

“These primroses,” said Ida, who was almost 
choking. “ They are for Mrs. Overtheway to take to 
church with her. I am very sorry, if you please, but 
I don’t know her name, and I call her Mrs. Overthe- 
way because, you know, she lives over the way. At 

least ” Ida added, looking back across the road 

with a sudden confusion in her ideas, “at least — I 
mean — you know — we live over the way.” And over- 
whelmed with shame at her own stupidity, Ida stuffed 
the flowers into the woman’s hand, and ran home as 
if a lion were at her heels. 

“Well! Miss Ida,” began Nurse, as Ida opened 
the nursery-door (and there was something terrible in 

her “well”); “if I ever ” and Nurse seized Ida 

by the arm, which was generally premonitory of her 
favourite method of punishment — “ a good shaking.” 
But Ida clung close and flung her arms round Nurse’s 
neck. 

“ Don’t shake me, Nursey, dear,” she begged, “ my 
head aches so. I have been very naughty, I know. 
I’ve done everything you can think of; I’ve crept 
through the hedge, and been right through the wood. 


IDA. 


21 


and made a ford, and tumbled into the brook, and 
waded back, and run all the way home, and been 
round by the town for fear you should see me. And 
IVe done something you could never, never think of 
if you tried till next Christmas, IVe got some flowers 
for Mrs. Overtheway, only I did it so stupidly; she 
will think me a perfect goose, and perhaps be angry, 
and the tears came into Ida’s eyes. 

“She’ll think you a naughty, troublesome child as 
you are,” said Nurse, who seldom hesitated to assume 
the responsibility of any statement that appeared to be 
desirable; “you’re mad on that old lady, I think. 
Just look at that dress !” 

Ida looked, but her tears were falling much too fast 
for her to have a clear view of anything, and the torn 
edges of the rent seemed fringed with prismatic colours. 

To crown all she was sent to bed. In reality, this 
was to save the necessity of wearing her best frock till 
the other was mended, and also to keep her warm in 
case she should have caught cold ; but Nurse spoke 
of it as a punishment, and Ida wept accordingly. 
And this was a triumph of that not uncommon line of 
nursery policy which consists in elaborately misleading 
the infant mind for good. 


22 MRS. OVERTHElVArS REMEMBRANCES. 


Chim ! chime ! went the bells next morning, and 
Mrs. Overtheway came down the white steps and 
through the green gate with a bunch of primroses in 
her hand. She looked up as usual, but not to the sky. 
She looked to the windows of the houses over the way, 
as if she expected some one to be looking for her. 
There was no face to be seen, however; and in the 
house directly opposite, one of the upper blinds was 
drawn down. Ida was ill. 

How long she was ill, ^nd of what was the matter with 
her, Ida had no very clear idea. She had visions of 
toiling through the wood over and over again, looking 
vainly for something that could never be found ; of 
being suddenly surrounded and cut off by swollen 
streams ; and of crawling, unclean beasts with preter- 
natural feelers who got into her boots. Then these 
heavy dreams cleared away in part, and the stream 
seemed to ripple like the sound of church bells, and 
these chimed out the old tune 

“ Quite through the streets, with silver sound,” &c. 

And then, at last, she awoke one fine morning to 
hear the sweet chim-chiming of the church bells, and 
to see Nurse sitting by her bedside. S4ie lay still for 


IDA 


23 


a few moments to make quite sure, and then asked in 
a voice so faint that it surprised herself : 

Has Mrs. Overtheway gone to church ? 

On which, to her great astonishment, Nurse burst 
into tears. For this was the first reasonable sentence 
that poor Ida had spoken for several days. 

To be very ill is not pleasant \ but the slow process 
of getting back strength is often less pleasant still. 
One afternoon Ida knelt in her old place at the win- 
dow. , She* was up, but might not go out, and this was 
a great grief. The day had been provokingly fine, and 
even now, though the sun was setting, it seemed in- 
clined to make a fresh start, so bright was the re- 
juvenated glow with which it shone upon the opposite 
houses, and threw a mystic glory over Mrs. Overthe- 
way’s white steps and green railings. Oh ! how Ida 
had wished to go out that afternoon ! How long and 
clear the shadows were ! It seemed to Ida that who- 
ever was free to go into the open aiir could have 
nothing more to desire. Out of doors ” looked like 
Paradise to the drooping little maid, and the passers- 
by seemed to go up and down the sunny street in a 
golden dream. Ida gazed till the shadows lengthened, 
and crept over the street and up the houses ; till the 


24 MRS. OVERTHEWArS REMEMBRANCES. 


sunlight died upon the railings, and then upon the 
steps, and at last lingered for half an hour in bright 
patches among the chimney-stacks, and then went out 
altogether, and left the world in shade. 

Twilight came on and Ida sat by the fire, which rose 
into importance now that the sunshine was gone ; and, 
moreover, spring evenings are cold. 

Ida felt desolate, and, on the whole, rather ill-used. 
Nurse had not been upstairs for hours, and though she 
had promised real tea and toast this evening, there 
were no signs of either as yet. The poor child felt too 
weak to play, and reading made her eyes ache. If only 
there were some one to tell her a story. 

It grew dark, and then steps came outside the 
door, and a fumbling with the lock which made Ida 
nervous. 

‘‘ Do come in, Nursey ! ” she cried. 

The door opened, and some one spoke; but the 
voice was not the voice of Nurse. It was a sweet, 
clear, gentle voice ; musical, though no longer young ; 
such a voice as one seldom hears and never forgets, 
which came out of the darkness, saying : 

‘‘It is not Nurse, my dear; she is making the tea, 
and gave me leave to come up alone. I am Mrs. 
Overtheway.” 


IDA. 


25 


And there in the firelight stood the little old lady, as 
she has been before described, except that instead of 
her Prayer-book she carried a large pot hyacinth in her 
two hands. 

‘‘ I have brought you one of my pets, my dear,*’ said 
she. I think we both love flowers.” 

The little old lady had come to tea. This was 
charming. She took off her bonnet, and her cap more 
than fulfilled Ida's expectations, although it was no- 
thing smarter than a soft mass of tulle, tied with white 
satin strings. But what a face looked out of it I Mrs. 
Overtheway's features were almost perfect. The beauty 
of her eyes was rather enhanced by the blue shadows 
that Time had painted round them, and they were 
those good eyes which remind one of a clear well, at 
the bottom of which he might see truth. When young 
she must have been exquisitely beautiful, Ida thought. 
She was lovely still. 

In due time Nurse brought up tea, and Ida could 
hardly believe that her fancies were realized at last ; 
indeed more than realized — for no bread-and-treacle 
diminished the dignity of the entertainment ; and 
Nurse would as soon have thought of carrying off the 
Great Mogul on his cushions, as of putting Mrs. Over- 
theway and her chair into the corner. 


26 MRS, O FERTHE WA YS REMEMBRANCES. 


But there is a limit even to the space of time for 
which one can enjoy tea and buttered toast The tray 
was carried off, the hyacinth put in its place, and Ida 
curled herself up in an easy-chair on one side of the 
fire, Mrs. Overtheway being opposite. 

You see I am over the way still,” laughed the little 
old lady. “Now, tell me all about the primroses.” 
So Ida told everything, and apologized for her awk- 
ward speeches to the housekeeper. 

“ I don^t know your name yet,” said she 

“Call me Mrs. Overtheway still, my dear, if you 
please,” said the little old lady. “ I like it” 

So Ida was no wiser on this score. 

“ I was so sorry to hear that you had been made ill 
on my account,” said Mrs. Overtheway. “ I have 
been many times to ask after you, and to-night I asked 
leave to come to tea. I wish I could do something to 
amuse you, you poor little invalid. I know you must 
feel dull.” 

Ida^s cheeks flushed. 

“ If you would only tell me a story,” she said, “ I do 
so like hearing Nurse’s stories. At least she has only 
one, but I like it. It isn’t exactly a story either, but it 
is about what happened in her last place. But I am 


IDA. 


27 


rather tired of it. There’s Master Henry — I like him 
very much, he was always in mischief ; and there’s Miss 
Adelaide, whose hair curled naturally — at least with a 
damp brush — I like Iier; but I don’t have much of 
them ; for Nurse generally goes off about a quarrel she 
had with the cook, and 1 never could tell what they 
quarrelled about, but Nurse said cook was full of 
malice and deceitfulness, so she left. I’m rather tired 
of it.” 

‘‘ What sort of a story shall I tell you ? ” asked Mrs. 
Overtheway. 

“ A true one, I think,” said Ida. “ Something that 
happened to you yourself, if you please. You must 
remember a great many things, being so old.” 

And Ida said this in simple good-faith, believing it 
to be a compliment. 

“ It is quite true,” said Mrs. Overtheway, “ that one 
remembers many things at the end of a long life, and 
that they are often those things which happened a long 
while ago, and which are sometimes so slight in them- 
selves that it is wonderful that they should not have 
been forgotten. I remember, for instance, when I was 
about your age, an incident that occurred which gave 
me an intense dislike to a special shade of brown satin. 


28 MRS. OVERTHEWAYS REMEMBRANCES. 


I hated it then, and at the end of more than half a 
century, I hate it still. The thing in itself was a mere 
folly ; the people concerned in it have been dead for 
many years, and yet at the present time I should find 
considerable difficulty in seeing the merits of a person 
who should dress in satin of that peculiar hue.” 

** What was it ? ” asked Ida. 

^‘It was not amber satin, and it was not snuff*- 
coloured satin; it was one of the shades of brown 
known by the name of feuille-morte, or dead-leaf 
colour. It is pretty in itself, and yet I dislike it.” 

How funny,” said Ida, wriggling in the arm-chair 
with satisfaction. “ Do tell me about it” 

But it is not funny in the least, unfortunately,” 
said Mrs. Overtheway, laughing. It isn’t really a story, 
either. It is not even like Nurse^s experiences. It is 
only a strong remembrance of my childhood, that isn’t 
worth repeating, and could hardly amuse you.” 

“ Indeed, indeed it would,” said Ida. ‘‘ I like the 
sound of it Satin is so different from cooks.” 

Mrs. Overtheway laughed. 

Still, I wish I could think of something more 
entertaining,” said she. 

‘‘ Please tell me that,” said Ida, earnestly ; I would 


IDA. 


29 


rather hear something about you than anything 
else.” 

There was no resisting this loving argument. Ida 
felt she had gained her point, and curled herself up 
into a listening attitude accordingly. The hyacinth 
stood in solemn sweetness as if it were listening also ; 
and Mrs. Overtheway, putting her little feet upon the 
fender to warm, began the story of 






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MRS. MOSa 


It did not move my grief, to sec 
The trace of human step departed. 
Because the garden was deserted, 

The blither place for me 1 

Friends, blame me not I a narrow ken 
Hath childhood ’twixt the sun and sward i 
We draw the moral afterward — 

We feel the gladness then. 


£. Barrett BROWNiNa 


MRS. MOSS. 

I REMEMBER,” said Mrs. Overtheway, ‘‘old as 1 
am, I remember distinctly many of the unrecognized 
vexations, longings, and disappointments of childhood. 
By unrecognized, I mean those vexations, longings, and 
disappointments which could not be understood by 
nurses, are not confided even to mothers, and through 
which, even in our cradles, we become subject to that 
law of humanity which gives to every heart its own 
secret bitterness to be endured alone. These are they 
which sometimes outlive weightier memories, and 
produce life-long impressions disproportionate to their 
value ; but oftener, perhaps, are washed away by the 
advancing tide of time, — the vexations, longings, and 
disappointments of the next period of our lives. These 
are they which are apt to be forgotten too soon to 
benefit our children, and which in the forgetting make 
childhood all bright to look back upon, and foster that 


D 


S4 MRS, OVERTHEWArS REMEMBRANCES 


happy fancy that there is one division of mortal life in 
which greedy desire, unfulfilled purpose, envy, sorrow, 
weariness, and satiety, have no part, by which every 
man believes himself at least to have been happy as a 
child. 

“ My childhood on the whole was a very happy one. 
The story that I am about to relate is only a fragment 
of it. 

As I look into the fire, and the hot coals shape 
themselves into a thousand memories of the past, I 
seem to be staring with childish eyes at a board that 
stares back at me out of a larch plantation, and gives 
notice that ‘This House is to Let.* Then, again 
I seem to peep through rusty iron gates at the house 
Itself — an old red house, with large windows, through 
which one could see the white shutters that were 
always closed. To look at this house, though only 
with my mind’s eye, recalls the feeling of mysterious 
interest with which I looked at it fifty years ago, and 
brings back the almost oppressive happiness of a cer- 
tain day, when Sarah, having business with the couple 
who kept the empty manor, took me with her, and 
left me to explore the grounds whilst she visited her 
friends. 


MRS, MOSS. 


35 


“ Next to a companion with that rare sympathy of 
mind to mind, that exceptional coincidence of tastes, 
which binds some few friendships in a chain of mes 
meric links, supplanting all the complacencies of love 
by intuition, is a companion whose desires and occupa- 
tions are in harmony, if not in unison, with one^s own. 
That friend whom the long patience of the angler does 
not chafe, the protracted pleasures of the sketcher do 
not weary, because time flies as swiftly with him whilst 
he pores over his book, or devoutly seeks botanical 
specimens through the artist's middle distance ; that 
friend, in short — that valuable friend — who is blessed 
with the great and good quality of riding a hobby of 
his own, and the greater and better quality of allowing 
other people to ride theirs. 

“ I did not think out all this fifty years ago, neither 
were the tastes of that excellent housemaid, Sarah, 
quite on a level with those of which I have spoken ; 
but I remember feeling the full comfort of the fact that 
Sarah's love for friendly gossip was quite as ardent as 
mine for romantic discovery ; that she was disposed to 
linger quite as long to chat as I to explore ; and that 
she no more expected me to sit wearily through her 
kitchen confidences, than I imagined that she would 


36 MRS, OVERTHEWAirS REMEMBRANCES. 


give a long afternoon to sharing my day-dreams in the 
gardens of the deserted manor. 

“ We had ridden our respective hobbies till nearly 
tea-time before she appeared. 

‘ I’m afraid you must be tired of waiting, Miss 
Mary,* said she. 

** * Tired ! * I exclaimed, ‘ not in the least. I have 
been so happy, and I am so much obliged to you, 
Sarah.* 

Need I say why I was so happy that afternoon ? 
Surely most people have felt — at least in childhood — 
the fascination of deserted gardens, uninhabited houses, 
ruined churches. They have that advantage over what 
is familiar and in use that undiscovered regions have 
over the comfortable one that the traveller leaves to 
explore them, that the secret which does not concern 
me has over the facts which do, that what we wish for 
has over what we possess. 

“ If you, my dear, were to open one of those drawers, 
and find Nurse’s Sunday dress folded up in the comer, 
it would hardly amuse you ; but if, instead thereof, you 
found a dress with a long stiff bodice, square at the 
neck, and ruffled round the sleeves, such as you have 
seen in old pictures, no matter how old or useless it 


MRS. MOSS. 


37 


might be, it would shed round it an atmosphere of 
delightful and mysterious speculations. This curiosity, 
these fancies, roused by the ancient dress, whose 
wearer has passed away, are awakened equally by 
empty houses where some one must once have lived, 
though his place knows him no more. It was so with 
the manor. How often had I peeped through the 
gates, catching sight of garden walks, and wondering 
whither they led, and who had walked in them ; seeing 
that the shutters behind one window were partly open, 
and longing to look in. 

“To-day I had been in the walks and peeped 
through the window. This was the happiness. 

“ Through the window I had seen a large hall with 
a marble floor and broad stone stairs winding upwards 
into unknown regions. By the walks I had arrived at 
the locked door of the kitchen garden, at a small wood 
or wilderness of endless delights (including a broken 
swing), and at a dilapidated summer-house. I had 
wandered over the spongy lawn, which was cut into a 
long green promenade by high dipt yew-hedges, walk- 
ing between which, in olden times, the ladies grew 
erect and stately, as plants among brushwood stretch 
up to air and light. 


V 


38 MRS. OVERTHEWArS REMEMBRANCES. 


Finally, I had brought away such relics as it 
seemed to me that honesty would allow. I had found 
half a rusty pair of scissors iii the summer-house. 
Perhaps some fair lady of former days had lost them 
here, and swept distractedly up and down the long 
walks seeking them. Perhaps they were a present, 
and she had given^a luck-penny for them, lest they 
should cut love. Sarah said the housekeeper might 
have dropped them there ; but Sarah was not a person 
of sentiment. I did not show her the marble I found 
by the hedge, the acorn I picked up in the park, nor 
a puny pansy which, half way back to a wild heartsease, 
had touched me as a pathetic memorial of better days. 
When I got home, I put the scissors, the marble, and 
the pansy into a box. The acorn I hung in a bottle 
of water — it was to be an oak tree. 

^‘Properly speaking, I was not at home just then, 
but on a visit to my grandmother and a married aunt 
without children who lived with her. A fever had 
broken out in my own home, and my visit here had 
been prolonged to keep me out of the way of infection. 
I was very happy and comfortable except for one 
single vexation, which was this : 

I slept on a little bed in what had once been the 


MRS, MOSS. 


39 


nursery, a large room which was now used as a work- 
room. A great deal of sewing was done in my grand- 
mother's house, and the sewing-maid and at least one 
other of the servants sat there every evening. A red 
silk screen was put before my bed to shield me from 
the candle-light, and I was supposed to be asleep when 
they came upstairs. But I never remember to have 
been otherwise than wide awake, nervously awake, 
wearily awake. This was the vexation. I was not a 
strong child, and had a very excitable brain ; and the 
torture that it was to hear those maids gossiping on 
the other side of the dim red light of my screen I 
cannot well describe, but I do most distinctly remem- 
ber. I tossed till the clothes got hot, and threw them 
off till I got cold, and stopped my ears, and pulled the 
sheet over my face, and tried not to listen, and listened 
in spite of all. They told long stories, and made 
many jokes that I couldn’t understand ; sometimes I 
heard names that I knew, and fancied I had learnt 
some wonderful secret. Sometimes, on the contrary, 
I made noises to intimate that I was awake, when one 
of them would re-arrange my glaring screen, and advise 
me to go to sleep, and then they talked in whispers, 
which was more distracting still. 


40 MRS. OVERTHElVArS REMEMBRANCES. 


One evening — some months after my ramble round 
the manor — the maids went out to tea, and I lay in 
peaceful silence watching the shadows which crept 
noiselessly about the room as the fire blazed, and 
wishing Sarah and her colleagues nothing less than a 
month of uninterrupted tea-parties. I was almost 
asleep when Aunt Harriet came into the room. She 
brought a candle, put up my screen (the red screen 
again !) and went to the work-table. She had not been 
rustling with the work things for many minutes when 
my grandmother followed her, and shut the door with 
an air which seemed to promise a long stay. She also 
gave a shove to my screen, and then the following 
conversation began : 

‘‘ ‘ I have been to Lady Stutfield's to-day, Harriet.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed, ma’am.* But my aunt respectfully con- 
tinued her work, as I could hear by the scraping of the 
scissors along the table. 

I heard some news there. The manor is let.’ 

I almost jumped in my bed, and Aunt Harriet’s 
scissors paused. 

“ ‘ Let, ma’am I To whom ? ’ 

“‘To a Mrs. Moss. You must have heard me 
speak of her. I knew her years ago, when we were 


MI^S. MOSS. 


4 * 


both young women. Anastatia Eden, she was 
then.’ 

“ I could hear my aunt move to the fire, and sit 
down. 

“‘The beautiful Miss Eden ? Whom did she marry 
at last ? Was there not some love-affair of hers that 
you knew about ? ’ 

“‘Her love-affairs were endless. But you mean 
Mr. Sandford. She treated him very ill — very ill.” 

“ There was a pause, while the fire crackled m the 
silence; and then, to the infinite satisfaction of my 
curiosity. Aunt Harriet said : 

“ ‘ IVe forgotten the story, ma’am. He was poor, 
was he not?’ 

“‘He had quite enough to marry on,’ my grand- 
mother answered, energetically; ‘but he was not a 
great match. It was an old story, my dear. The 
world ! The world ! The world ! I remember sitting 
up with Anastatia after a ball, where he had been at 
her side all the evening. We sipped hot posset, and 
talked of our partners. Ah, dear!’ And here my 
grandmother heaved a sigh ; partly, perhaps, because 
of the follies of youth, and partly, perhaps, because 
youth had gone, and could come back no more. 


42 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


‘‘ ‘ Anastatia talked of him/ she continued. ‘ I re- 
member her asking me if “ her man ** were not a pretty 
fellow, and if he had not sweet blue eyes and the 
greatest simplicity I ever knew but in a child. It was 
true enough ; and he was a great deal more than that 
— a great deal more than she ever understood. Pool 
Anastatia ! I advised her to marry him, but she seemed 
to look on that as impossible. I remember her say- 
ing that it would be different if she were not an ac 
knowledged beauty ; but it was expected that she 
would marry well, and he was comparatively poor, and 
not even singular. He was accomplished, and the 
soul of honour, but simple, provokingly simple, with 
no pretensions to carry off the toast of a county. My 
dear, if he had been notorious in any way — for dissi- 
pation, for brawling, for extravagance — I believe it 
would have satisfied the gaping world, and he would 
have had a chance. But there was nothing to talk 
about, and Anastatia had not the courage to take him 
for himself. She had the world at her feet, and paid 
for it by being bound by its opinion.' 

‘‘ Here my grandmother, who was apt to moralize, 
especially when relating biographies of young ladies, 
gave another sigh. 


MRS. MOSS. 


43 


** ‘ Then why did she encourage him ? * inquired Aunt 
Harriet; who also moralized, but with more of in- 
dignation and less of philosophy. 

‘‘ ‘ I believe she loved him in spite of herself ; but 
at the last, when he offered, she turned prudent and 
refused him.’ 

‘ Poor man ! Did he ever marry ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, and very happily — a charming woman. Bu* 
the strange part of the story is, that he came quite un 
expectedly into a large property that was in his family. 

‘ Did he ? Then he would have been as good a 
.match as most of her admirers ? ’ 

“ ‘ Better. It was a fine estate. Poor Anastatia 

^ Serve her right,’ said my aunt, shortly. 

‘ She was very beautiful,’ my grandmother gently 
recommenced. She said this, not precisely as an ex 
cuse, but with something of the sort in her tone. 

• ‘Very beautiful ! How stately she did look that night, 
to be sure ! She did not paint, and her complexion (a 
shade too high by day) was perfection by candlelight. 
I can see her now, my dear, as she stood up for a 
minuet with him. We wore hoops, then ; and she had 
a white brocade petticoat, embroidered with pink rose- 
buds, and a train and bodice of pea-green satin, and 


44 MRS, OVERTHEIVATS REMEMBRANCES, 


green satin shoes with pink heels. You never saw 
anything more lovely than that brocade. A rich old 
aunt had given it to her. The shades of the rosebuds 
were exquisite. I embroidered the rosebuds on that 
salmon-coloured cushion downstairs from a piece that 
Anastatia gave me as a pattern. Dear me ! What a 
dress it was, and how lovely she looked in it ! Her 
eyes were black, a thing you rarely see, and they shone 
and glittered under her powdered hair. She had a 
delicately curved nose ; splendid teeth, too, and showed 
them when she smiled. Then such a lovely throat, 
and beautifully-shaped arms ! I don’t know how it is, 
my dear Harriet,’ added my grandmother, thought- 
fully, ‘but you don’t see the splendid women now-a 
days that there were when I was young. There are 
plenty of pretty, lively girls (rather too lively in my 
old-fashioned judgment), but not the real stately beauty 
that it was worth a twenty miles’ drive there and back, 
just to see, at one of the old county balls.’ 

“My aunt sniffed, partly from a depressing con- 
sciousness of being one of a degenerate generation, 
and of a limited experience in the matter of county 
balls j partly also to express her conviction that prin- 
ciple is alove beauty. She said : 


M/^S. MOSS. 


AS 


“ ‘ Then Miss Eden married, ma^am ? * 

“‘Yes, rather late, Mr. Moss; a wealthy Indian 
merchant, I believe. She lost all her children, I know, 
one after another, and then he died. Poor Anastatia ! 
It seems like yesterday. And to think she should be 
coming here ! * 

“My grandmother sighed again, and I held my 
breath, hoping for some further particulars of the 
lovely heroine of this romance. But I was disap- 
pointed. My uncle’s voice at this moment called 
loudly from below, and Aunt Harriet hurried off with 
a conscious meritoriousness about her, becoming a lady 
who had married the right man, and took great care 
of him. 

“ ‘ Supper, ma’am, I think,’ she said, as she left the 
room. 

“ My grandmother sat still by the fire, sighing gently 
now and then, and I lay making up my mind to brave 
all and tell her that I was awake. In the first place 
(although I was not intentionally eavesdropping, and 
my being awake was certainly not my fault), I felt 
rather uneasy at having overheard what I knew was 
not intended for my hearing. Besides this, I wanted 
to hear some more stories of the lovely Mrs. Moss, 


46 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


and to ask how soon she would come to the manor. 
After a few seconds my grandmother rose and toddled 
across the room. I made an effort, and spoke just 
above my breath : 

“ ‘ Granny ! * 

“ But my grandmother was rather deaf. Moreover, 
my voice may have been drowned in the heavy sigh 
with which she closed the nursery door. 

The room was empty again ; the glare of the red 
screen was tenderly subdued in the firelight ; but for 
all this I did not go to sleep. I took advantage of my 
freedom to sit up in bed, toss my hair from my fore- 
head, and clasping my knees with my arms, to rock 
myself and think. My thoughts had one object ; my 
whole mind was filled with one image — Mrs. Moss. 
The future inhabitant of my dear deserted manor 
would, in any circumstances, have been an interesting 
subject for my fancies. The favoured individual whose 
daily walk might be between the yew hedges on that 
elastic lawn ; who should eat, drink, and sleep through 
the commonplace hours of this present time behind 
those mystical white shutters ! But when the individual 
added to this felicitous dispensation of fortune the 
personal attributes of unparalleled beauty and pea- 


MRS, MOSS, 


47 


green satin ; of having worn hoops, high heels, and 
powder; of countless lovers, and white brocade with 
pink rosebuds; — well might I sit, my brain whirl- 
ing with anticipation, as I thought : ‘ She is coming 
here: I shall see her!^ For though, of course, I knew 
that having lived in those (so to speak) pre-historic 
times when my grandmother was young, Mrs. Moss 
must now be an old woman ; yet, strange as it may 
seem, my dear, I do assure you that I never realized 
the fact. I thought of her as I had heard of her — 
young and beautiful — and modelled my hopes accord- 
ingly. 

‘‘ Most people^s day-dreams take, sooner or later, a 
selfish turn. I seemed to identify myself with the 
beautiful Anastatia. I thought of the ball as one looks 
back to the past. I fancied myself moving through 
the 7ninuet de la cour^ whose stately paces scarcely made 
the silken rosebuds rustle. I rejected en masse count- 
less suitors of fabulous wealth and nobility ; but when 
it came to Mr. Sandford, I could feel with Miss Eden 
no more. My grandmother had said that she loved 
him, that she encouraged him, and that she gave him 
up for money. It was a mystery ! In her place, I 
thought, I would have danced every dance with him ; 


48 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


I would have knitted for him in winter, and gathered 
flowers for him in the summer hedges. To whom 
should one be most kind, if not to those whom one 
most loves? To love, and take pleasure in giving pain 
— to balance a true heart and clear blue eyes against 
money, and prefer money — ^was not at that time com- 
prehensible by me. I pondered, and (so to speak) 
spread out the subject before my mind, and sat in 
judgment upon it. 

‘‘ Money — that is, golden guineas (my grandmother 
had given me one on my birthday), crowns, shillings,, 
sixpences, pennies, halfpennies, farthings; and when 
you come to consider how many things a guinea 
judiciously expended in a toy-shop will procure, you 
see that money is a great thing, especially if you have 
the full control of it, and are not obliged to spend it 
on anything useful. 

On the other hand, those whom you love and who 
love you — not in childhood, thank God, the smallest 
part of one’s acquaintance. 

“ I made a list on my own account. It began with 
my mother, and ended with my yellow cat. (It in- 
cluded a crusty old gardener, who was at times, espe- 
cially in the spring, so particularly cross that I might 


MRS, M'OSS. 


49 


have been tempted to exchange him for the undisputed 
possession of that stock of seeds, tools, and flowerpots 
which formed our chief subject of dispute. But this 
is a digression.) I took the lowest. Could I part 
with Sandy Tom for any money, or for anything that 
money VK)uld buy ? I thought of a speaking doll, a 
miniature piano, a tiny carriage drawn by four yellow 
mastiffs, of a fairy purse that should never be empty, 
with all that might thereby be given to others or kept 
for oneself : and then I thought of Sandy Tom — of his 
large, round, soft head ; his fine eyes (they were yellow, 
not blue, and glared with infinite tenderness) ; his 
melodious purr ; his expressive whiskers ; his incom 
parable tail. 

*‘Love rose up as an impulse, an instinct; it would 
not be doubted, it utterly refused to be spread out to 
question. 

‘“Oh, Puss 1’ I thought, ‘if you could but leap on 
to the bed at this moment I would explain it all to our 
mutual comprehension and satisfaction. My dear 
Sandy,’ I would say, ‘ with you to lie on the cushioned 
seat, a nice little carriage, and four yellow mastiffs, would 
be perfection ; but as to comparing what I love — to 
wit, you, Sandy ! — with what I want — to wit, four 
£ 


50 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


yellow mastiffs and a great many other things besides 
- — I should as soon think of cutting off your tail to 
dust the doirs house with/ Alas ! Sandy Tom was at 
home; I could only imagine the gentle rub of the 
head with which he would have assented. Meanwhile, 
I made up my mind firmly on one point. My grand- 
mother was wrong. Miss Anastatia Eden had not 
loved Mr. Sandford. 

‘‘ Smash ! The fire, which had been gradually be- 
coming hollow, fell in at this moment, and I started 
to find myself chilly and cramped ; and so lay down. 
Then my thoughts took another turn. I wondered if 
I should grow up beautiful, like Mrs. Moss. It was a 
serious question. I had often looked at myself in the 
glass, but I had a general idea that I looked much like 
other little girls of my age. I began gravely to 
examine myself in detail, beginning from the top of my 
head. My hair was light, and cropped on a level with 
the lobes of my ears; this, however, would amend 
itself with time ; and I had long intended that my hair 
should be of raven blackness, and touch the ground at 
least ; ‘ but that will not be till I am grown up,' thought 
I. Then my eyes : they were large ; in fact the undue 
proportions they assumed when I looked ill or tired 


MRS. MOSS. 


51 


formed a family joke. If size were all that one re- 
quires in eyes, mine would certainly pass muster. 
Moreover, they had long curly lashes. I fingered 
these slowly, and thought of Sandy’s whiskers. At 
this point I nearly fell asleep, but roused myself to 
examine my nose. My grandmother had said that 
Mrs, Moss’s nose was delicately curved. Now, it is 
certainly true that a curve may be either concave or 
convex ; but I had heard of the bridge of a nose, and 
knew well enough which way the curve should go ; and 
I had a shrewd suspicion that if so very short a nose 
as mine, with so much and so round a tip, could be 
said to be curved at all, the curve went the wrong way ; 
at the same time, I could not feel sure. For I must 
tell you that to lie in a comfortable bed, at an hour 
long beyond the time when one ought naturally to be 
asleep, and to stroke one’s nose, is a proceeding not 
favourable to forming a clear judgment on so impor- 
tant a point as one’s personal appearance. The very 
shadows were still as well as silent, the fire had ceased 
to flicker, a delicious quietude pervaded the room, as 
I stroked my nose and dozed, and dozed and stroked 
my nose, and lost all sense of its shape, and fancied it 
a huge lump growing under my fingers. — The extreme 


53 MRS. OVERTffEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


unpleasantness of this idea just prevented my falling 
asleep ; and I roused myself and sat up again. 

“ ‘ It’s no use feeling,* I thought, ‘ I’ll look in the 
glass.' 

‘‘ There was one mirror in the room. It hung above 
the mantelpiece. It was old, deeply framed in dark 
wood, and was so hung as to slope forwards into the 
room. 

“ In front of the fire stood an old-fashioned, cushioned 
armchair, with a very high back, and a many-frilled 
chintz cover. A footstool lay near it. It was here 
that my grandmother had been sitting. I jumped out 
of bed, put the footstool into the chair that I might 
get to a level with the glass, and climbed on to it. 
Thanks to the slope of the mirror, I could now see 
my reflection as well as the dim firelight would permit. 

‘ What a silly child ! ’ you will say, Ida. Very 
silly, indeed, my dear. And how one remembers one’s 
follies ! At the end of half a century, I recall my re- 
flection in that old nursery mirror more clearly than I 
remember how I looked in the glass before which I 
put on my bonnet this evening to come to tea with 
you : the weird, startled glance of my eyes, which, in 
theii most prominent stage of weariness, gazed at me 






i 

Page 53. ,] 

j 

1 


MR. JOSEPH. 

















MRS. MOSS. 


53 


out of the shadows of the looking-glass, the tumbled 
tufts of hair, the ghostly effect of my white night-dress. 
As to my nose, I could absolutely see nothing of its 
shape; the firelight just caught the round tip, which 
shone like a little white toadstool from the gloom, and 
this was all. 

‘“One can^t see the shape, full face,^ I thought. 
‘ If I had only another looking-glass.’ 

“ But there was not another. I knew it, and yet 
involuntarily looked round the room. Suddenly I ex* 
claimed aloud, ‘ Mr. Joseph will do 1’ 

“Who was Mr. Joseph — you will ask. My dear 
Ida, I really do not know. I have not the least idea. 
I had heard him called Mr. Joseph, and I fancy he 
was a connection of the family. All I knew of him 
was his portrait, a silhouette^ elegantly glazed and 
framed in black wood, which hung against the nursery 
wall. I was ignorant of his surname and history. I 
had never examined his features. But I knew that 
happily he had been very stout, since his ample coat 
and waistcoat, cut out in black paper, converted the 
glass which covered them into an excellent mirror for 
my dolls. 

• Worthy Mr. Joseph ! Here he was coming in use 


54 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 

ful again. How much we owe to our forefathers ! I 
soon unhooked him, and climbing back into the chair, 
commenced an examination of my profile by the pro- 
cess of double reflection. But all in vain ! Whether 
owing to the dusty state of the mirror, or to the dim 
light, or to the unobliging shapeliness of Mr. Joseph’s 
person, I cannot say, but turn and twist as I would, I 
could not get a view of my profile sufficiently clear 
and complete to form a correct judgment upon. I 
held Mr. Joseph, now high, now low; I stooped, I 
stood on tiptoe, I moved forward, I leant backward. 
It was this latest manoeuvre that aggravated the natural 
topheaviness of the chair, and endangered its balance. 
The fore-legs rose, my spasmodic struggle was made in 
the wrong direction, and I, the armchair, and Mr. 
Joseph fell backwards together. 

‘‘ Two of us were light enough, and happily escaped 
unhurt. It was the armchair which fell with such an 
appalling crash, and whether it were any the worse or 
no, I could not tell as it lay. As soon as I had a 
little recovered from the shock, therefore, I struggled 
to raise it, whilst Mr. Joseph lay helplessly upon the 
ground, with his waistcoat turned up to the ceiling. 

It was thus that my aunt found us. 


MRS. MOSS. 


55 


“ If only Mr. Joseph and I had fallen together, no 
one need have been the wiser; but that lumbering arm- 
chair had come down with a bump that startled the 
sober trio at supper in the dining-room below. 

“ ‘ What is the matter ? ’ said Aunt Harriet. 

‘‘ I was speechless. 

‘‘ ‘ What have you been doing ? ' 

‘‘ I couldn’t speak ; but accumulating misfortune 
was gradually overpowering me, and I began to cry. 

‘‘ ‘ Get into bed,’ said Aunt Harriet. 

I willingly obeyed, and Aunt Harriet seated her 
self at the foot. 

“‘Now, think before you speak, Mary,’ she said 
quietly, ‘ and then tell me the truth. What have you 
been doing ? ’ 

“ One large tear rolled over my nose and off the tip 
as I feebly began — 

“ ‘ I got into the chair — ’ 

“ ‘ Well ? ’ said Aunt Harriet. 

“ ‘ — to look in the glass.’ 

“ * What for ? ’ said Aunt Harriet. 

“Tears flowed unrestrainedly over my face as I 
howled in self-abasement — 


“‘To look at the shape of my nose.’ 


56 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


‘‘At this point Aunt Harriet rose, and turning her 
back rather abruptly, crossed the room, and picked up 
Mr. Joseph. (I have since had reason to believe that 
she was with difficulty concealing a fit of laughter.) 

“ ‘ What have you had this picture down for ? ’ she 
inquired, still with her back to me. 

“‘I couldn’t see,’ I sobbed, ‘and I got Mr. Joseph 
to help me.’ 

“ My aunt made no reply, and still carefully conceal- 
ing her face, restored Mr. Joseph to his brass nail with 
great deliberation. 

“ There is nothing like full confession. I broke the 
silence. 

“ ‘ Aunt Harriet, I was awake when you and Granny 
were here, and heard what you said.’ 

“‘You are a very silly, naughty child,’ my aunt 
severely returned. ‘ Why don’t you go to sleep when 
you are sent to bed ? ’ 

I can’t,’ I sobbed, ‘with talking and candles.’ 

“‘You’ve got the screen,’ said Aunt Harriet; and 
I cannot tell why, but somehow I lacked courage to 
say that the red screen was the chief instrument of 
torture. 

“‘Well, go to sleep now,’ she concluded, ‘and be 


MRS, MOSS. 


57 


thankful you’re not hurt. You might have killed 
yourself.’ 

“ Encouraged by the gracious manner in which she 
tucked me up, I took a short cut to the information 
which I had failed to attain through Mr. Joseph. 

‘‘‘Aunt Harriet,’ I said, ‘do you think I shall ever 
be as beautiful as Mrs. Moss ? ’ 

“‘I’m ashamed of you,’ said Aunt Harriet. 

“ I climbed no more into the treacherous armchair. 
I eschewed the mirror. I left Mr. Joseph in peace 
upon the wall. I took no further trouble about the 
future prospects of my nose. But night and day I 
thought of Mrs. Moss. I found the old cushion, and 
sat by it, gazing at the faded tints of the rosebuds, till 
I imagined the stiff brocade in all its beauty and fresh- 
ness. I took a vigorous drawing fit ; but it was only 
to fill my little book with innumerable sketches of 
Mrs. Moss. My uncle lent me his paint-box, as he 
was wont ; and if the fancy portraits that I made were 
not satisfactory even to myself, they failed in spite of 
cheeks blushing with vermilion, in spite of eyes as 
large and brilliant as lamp-black could make them, 
and in spite of the most accurately curved noses that 
my pencil could produce. The amount of gamboge 


58 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


and Prussian blue that I wasted in vain efforts to pro- 
duce a satisfactory pea-green, leaves me at this day 
an astonished admirer of my uncle’s patience. At 
this time I wished to walk along no other road than 
that which led to my dear manor, where the iron gates 
were being painted, the garden made tidy, and the 
shutters opened ; but above all the chief object of my 
desires was to accompany my grandmother and aunt 
in their first visit to Mrs. Moss. 

“Once I petitioned Aunt Harriet on this subject. 
Her answer was — 

“ ‘ My dear, there would be nothing to amuse you ; 
Mrs. Moss is an old woman.’ 

“ ‘ Granny said she was so beautiful,’ I suggested. 

“‘So she was, my dear, when your grandmother 
was young.’ 

“These and similar remarks I heard and heeded 
not. They did not add one wrinkle to my ideal of 
Mrs. Moss : they in no way whatever lessened my 
desire of seeing her. I had never seen my grand- 
mother young, and her having ever been so seemed 
to me at the most a matter of tradition ; on the other 
hand, Mrs. Moss had been presented to my imagina- 
tion in the bloom of youth and beauty, and, say what 


MRS. MOSS. 


59 


they would, in the bloom of youth and beauty I ex- 
pected to see her still. 

‘‘ One afternoon, about a week after the arrival of 
Mrs. Moss, I was busy in the garden, where I had 
been working for an hour or more, when I heard 
carriage wheels drive up and stop at our door. Could 
it be Mrs. Moss ? I stole gently round to a position 
where I could see without being seen, and discovered 
that the carriage was not that of any caller, but my 
uncle’s. Then Granny and Aunt Harriet were going 
out. I rushed up to the coachman, and asked where 
they were going. He seemed in no way overpowered 
by having to reply — ‘To the manor, Miss.’ 

“ That was to Mrs. Moss, and I was to be left be- 
hind ! I stood speechless in bitter disappointment, as 
my grandmother rustled out in her best silk dress, 
followed by Aunt Harriet and my uncle, who, when 
he saw me, exclaimed — 

“ ‘ Why, there’s my little Mary 1 Why don’t you take 
her ? I’ll be bound she wants to go.’ 

“‘I do, indeed!’ I exclaimed, in Cinderella-like 
tones. 

“‘But Mrs. Moss is such an old lady,’ said Aunt 
Harriet, whose ideas upon children were purely theo' 


6o AIRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES 


retical, and who could imagine no interests for them 
apart from other children, from toys or definite amuse- 
ments — ‘ What could the child do with herself? ^ 

‘‘‘ Do !’ said my uncle, who took a rough and cheery 
view of life, ‘ why, look about her, to be sure. And 
if Mrs. M. is an old lady, therein be all the more 
Indian cabinets and screens, and japanned tables, and 
knick-knacks, and lapdogs. Keep your eyes open. Miss 
Mary ; I Ve never seen the good lady or her belong- 
ings, but I'll stake my best hat on the japan ware and 
the lapdog. Now, how soon can you be dressed?' 

“ Later in life the selfish element mixes more largely 
with our admirations. A few years thence, and in a 
first interview with the object of so many fancies, I 
should have thought as much of my own appearance 
on the occasion, as of what I was myself to see. I 
should have taken some pains with my toilette. At 
that time, the desire to see Mrs. Moss was too absorb- 
ing to admit of any purely personal considerations. 
I dashed into the nursery, scrubbed my hands and 
face to a raw red complexion, brushed my hair in 
three strokes, and secured my things with one sweep. 
I hastily pocketed a pincushion of red cloth, worked 
with yellow silk spots, in the likeness of a strawberry. 


MRS, MOSS, 


01 


It was a pet treasure of mine, and I intended it as an 
offering to Mrs. Moss. I tied my hood at the top of 
the stairs, fastened my tippet in the hall, and reached 
the family coach by about three of those bounds com* 
mon to all young animals. 

‘‘ ‘ Halloa ! ’ said my uncle, with his face through 
the carriage door. ‘ YouVe not thanked me yet.’ 

‘‘ I flung my arms round his starched neckcloth. 

‘‘‘You’re a darling !’ I exclaimed, with an emphatic 
squeeze. 

“‘You’re another,’ he replied, returning the embrace 
upon my hood. 

“ With this mutual understanding we parted, and I 
thought that if Mrs. Moss were not certain to fulfil 
my ideal, I should have wished her to be as nearly 
like Uncle James as the circumstances of the case 
would permit. I watched his yellow waistcoat and 
waving hands till they could be seen no longer, and 
then I settled myself primly upon the back seat, and 
ventured upon a shy conciliating promise to be ‘ very 
good.’ 

“ ‘ You’re quite welcome to come, child,’ said Aunt 
Harriet ; ‘ but as I said, there are neither children noi 
playthings for you.’ 


62 MRS, OVERTIIEWArS REMEMBRANCES. 


Children or playthings ! What did I want with 
either? I put my arm through the loop by the window 
and watched the fields as they came and vanished, 
with vacant eyes, and thought of Mrs. Moss. A dozen 
times had I gone through the whole scene in my mind 
before we drove through the iron gates. I fancied 
myself in the bare, spacious hall, at which I had 
peeped; I seemed to hear a light laugh, and to see 
the beautiful face of Mrs. Moss look over the banisters; 
to hear a rustle, and the scraping of the stiff brocade, 
as the pink rosebuds shimmered, and the green satin 
shoes peeped out, and tap, tap, tap, the high pink 
heels resounded from the shallow stairs. 

‘‘I had dreamed this day-dream many times over 
before the carriage stopped with a shake, and Aunt 
Harriet roused me, asking if I were asleep. In another 
minute or so we were in the hall, and here I met with 
my first disappointment. 

“ To begin with, I had seen the hall unfurnished, 
and had not imagined it otherwise. I had pictured 
Mrs. Moss in her beauty and rose brocade, the sole 
ornament of its cold emptiness. Then (though I 
knew that my grandmother and aunt must both be pre- 
sent) I had really fancied myself the chief character 


MRS, MOSS 


63 


in this interview with Mrs. Moss. I had thought of 
myself as rushing up the stairs to meet her, and laying 
the pincushion at her green satin feet. And now that 
at last I was really in the hall, I should not have 
known it again. It was carpeted from end to end. 
Fragrant orange-trees stood in tubs, large hunting 
pictures hung upon the walls, below which stood 
cases of stuffed birds, and over all presided a footman 
in livery, who himself looked like a stuffed specimen 
of the human race with unusually bright plumage. 

“No face peeped over the banisters, and when we 
went upstairs, the footman went first (as seemed due 
to him), then my grandmother, followed by my aunt, 
and lastly I, in the humblest insignificance, behind 
them. My feet sank into the soft stair-carpets, I 
vacantly admired the elegant luxury around me, with 
an odd sensation of heartache. Everything was 
beautiful, but I had wanted nothing to be beautiful 
but Mrs. Moss. 

“Already the vision began to fade. That full-fed 
footman troubled my fancies. His scarlet plush killed 
the tender tints of the rosebuds in my thoughts, and 
the streaky powder upon his hair seemed a mockery 
of the toupee I hoped to see, whose whiteness should 


64 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


enhance the lustre of rare black eyes. He opened the 

f 

drawing-room door and announced my grandmother 
and aunt. I followed, and (so far as one may be said 
to face anything when one stands behind the skirts of 
two intervening elders) I was face to face with Mrs. 
Moss. 

“That is, I was face to face with a tall, dark, 
old woman, with stooping shoulders, a hooked nose, 
black eyes that smouldered in their sunken socket^ 
and a distinct growth of beard upon her chin. Mr. 
Moss had been dead many years and his widow had 
laid aside her weeds. She wore a dress of feuille-morte 
satin, and a black lace shawl. She had a rather 
elaborate cap with a tendency to get on one sid^ 
perhaps because it would not fit comfortably on the 
brown front with bunchy curls which was fastened into 
its place by a band of broad black velvet. 

“ And this was Mrs. Moss ! This was the end of all 
my fancies ! There was nothing astonishing in the 
disappointment ; the only marvel was that I should 
have indulged in so foolish a fancy for so long. I had 
been told more than once that Mrs. Moss was nearly 
as old as my grandmother. As it was she looked 
older. Why — I could not tell then, though I know now. 


MRS. MOSS. 


65 


My grandmother, though never a beauty, had 
a sweet smile of her own, and a certain occasional 
kindling of the eyes, the outward signs of a character 
full of sentiment and intelligence; and these had 
outlasted youth. She had always been what is called 
‘pleasing,’ and she was pleasing still. But in Mrs. 
Moss no strength, no sentiment, no intellect filled the 
place of the beauty that was gone. Features th^t 
were powerful without character, and eyes that glowed 
without expression, formed a wreck with little to recall 
the loveliness that had bewildered Mr. Sandford — 
and me. 

“ There is not much more to tell, Ida. This was 
the disappointment. This is the cause of my dislike 
for a certain shade of feuille-morte satin. It disap- 
pointed me of that rose brocade which I was never to 
see. You shall hear how I got through the visit, how- 
ever. This meeting which (like so many meetings) 
had proved the very reverse of what was hoped. 

“Through an angle of Aunt Harriet’s pelisse, I 
watched the meeting between my grandmother and 
Mrs. Moss. They kissed and then drew back and 
looked at each other, still holding hands. I wondered 
if my grandmother felt as I felt. I could not tell. 


F 


66 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


With one of her smiles, she bent forward and, kissing 
Mrs.. Moss again, said, 

“ ‘ God bless you, Anastatia/ 

“ ‘ God bless you, Elizabeth/ 

“ It was the first time Mrs. Moss had spoken, and 
her voice was rather gruff. Then both ladies sat 
down, and my grandmother drew out her pocket- 
handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Mrs. Moss began 
(as I thought) to look for hers, and not finding it, 
called 

‘ Metcalfe ! * 

on which a faded little woman, with a forefinger in a 
faded-looking book, came out from behind some 
window-curtains and rummaging Mrs. Moss’s chair 
with a practised hand, produced a large silver snuff- 
box, from which Mrs. Moss took a pinch, and then 
offered it to Granny, who shook her head. Mrs. 
Moss took another and a larger pinch. It was evident 
what made her voice so gruff. 

‘‘Aunt Harriet was introduced as ‘My daughter 
Harriet,’ and made a stiff curtsey as Mrs. Moss smiled, 
and nodded, and bade her ‘sit down, my dear.’ 
Throughout the whole interview she seemed to be 
looked upon by both ladies as a child, and played the 


MI^S. MOSS, 


67 


part so well, sitting prim and silent on her chair, that 
I could hardly help humming as I looked at her : 

* Hold up your head, 

Turn out your toes, 

Speak when you’re spoken to, 

Mend your clothes,* 

I was introduced, too, as ‘a grandchild,* made a 
curtsey the shadow of Aunt Harriet*s, ’•eceived a nod, 
the shadow of that bestowed upon her, and got out of 
the way as soon as I could, behind my aunt*s chair, 
where coming unexpectedly upon three fat pug-dogs 
on a mat, I sat down among them and felt quite at 
home. 

‘The sight of the pugs brought Uncle James 
to my mind, and when I looked round the room, 
it seemed to me that he must be a conjuror at least, 
so true was everything he had said. A large Indian 
screen hid the door ; japanned boxes stood on a little 
table to correspond in front of it, and there were two 
cabinets having shallow drawers with decorated 
handles, and a great deal of glass, through which 
odd teacups, green dragons, Indian gods, and Dresden 
shepherdesses were visible upon the shelves. The 
room was filled with knickknacks, and here were the 


68 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


pug-dogs, no less than three of them ! They were 
very fat, and had little beauty except as to their round 
heads, and black wrinkled snouts, which I kissed over 
and over again. 

‘ Do you mind Mrs. Moss’s being old, and dress- 
ing in that hideous brown dress?’ I asked in a 
whisper at the ear of one of these round heads. 
‘ Think of the rosebuds on the brocade, and the pea- 
green satin, and the high-heeled shoes. Ah ! ’ I added, 
‘ you are only a pug, and pugs don’t think.’ Neverthe- 
less, I pulled out the pincushion, and showed it 
to each dog in turn, and the sight of it so forcibly 
reminded me of my vain hopes, that I could not help 
crying. A hot tear fell upon the nose of the oldest 
and fattest pug, which so offended him that he moved 
away to another mat at some distance, and as both the 
others fell fast asleep, I took refuge in my own 
thoughts. 

The question arose why should not Mrs. Moss 
have the pincushion after all ? I had expected her to 
be young and beautiful, and she had proved old and 
ugly, it is true ; but there is no reason why old and 
ugly people should not have cushions to keep their 
pins in. It was a struggle to part with my dear straw- 


MRS. MOSS, 


69 


berry pincushion in the circumstances, but I had fairly 
resolved to do so, when the rustle of leave-taking 
began, and I had to come out of my corner. 

“ ‘ Bid Mrs. Moss good-day, Mary,’ said my grand- 
mother ; and added, ‘ the child has been wild to come 
and see you, Anastatia.’ 

“Mrs. Moss held out her hand good-naturedly. 
* So you wanted to see me, my dear ? ’ said she. 

“ I took my hand out of my pocket, where I had 
been holding the pincushion, and put both into Mrs. 
Moss’s palm. 

“‘I brought this for you, ma’am,’ I said. ‘It is 
not a real strawberry ; it is emery ; I made it myself.’ 

“And the fact of having sacrificed something for 
Mrs. Moss made me almost fond of her. Moreover, 
there was an expression in her eyes at that moment 
which gave them beauty. She looked at my grand- 
mother and laid her hand on my head. 

“ ‘ I lost all mine, Elizabeth.’ 

“I thought she was speaking of her pincushions, 
and being in a generous mood, said hastily, 

“ ‘ When that is worn out, ma’am, I will make you 
another.’ 

“ But she was speaking of her children. Poor Mr& 


70 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


Moss ! She took another huge pinch of snuff, and 
railed, ‘ Metcalfe/ 

“ The faded little woman appeared once more. 

“ ‘ I must give you a keepsake in return, my dear,* 
said Mrs. Moss. ‘The china pug, Metcalfe !* 

“Metcalfe (whose face always wore a smile that 
looked as if it were just about to disappear, and who, 
indeed, for that matter, always looked as if she were 
just about to disappear herself) opened one of the 
cabinets, and brought out a little toy pug in china, 
very delicately coloured, and looking just like one of 
my friends on the mat. I fell in love with it at once, 
and it was certainly a handsome exchange for the 
strawberry pincushion. 

“ * You will send the child to see me now and then, 
Elizabeth ? * said Mrs. Moss as we retired. 

“ In the end Mrs. Moss and I became great friends. 
I put aside my dream among the ‘vain fancies* of life, 
and took very kindly to the manor in its new aspect. 
Even the stuffed footman became familiar, and learnt 
to welcome me with a smile. The real Mrs. Moss 
was a more agreeable person than I have, I fear, 
represented her. She had failed to grasp solid 
happiness in life, because she had chosen with the 


MRS. MOSS. 


11 


cowardice of an inferior mind; but she had borne 
disappointment with dignity, and submitted to heavy 
sorrows with patience; and a greater nature could 
not have done more. She was the soul of good 
humour, and the love of small chat, which contrasted 
so oddly with her fierce appearance, was a fund of 
entertainment for me, as I fed my imagination and 
stored my memory with anecdotes of the good old 
times in the many quiet evenings we spent together. 
I learnt to love her the more heartily, I confess, 
when she bought a new gown and gave the feuille- 
morte satin to Mrs. Metcalfe. 

‘‘Mrs. Metcalfe was ‘humble companion^ to Mrs. 
Moss. She was in reality single, but she exacted the 
married title as a point of respect. At the beginning 
of our acquaintance I called her ‘ Miss Metcalfe,’ and 
this occasioned the only check our friendship ever 
received. Now I would, with the greatest pleasure, 
have addressed her as ‘ My Lord Archbishop,’ or in 
any other style to which she was not entitled, it being 
a matter of profound indifference to me. But the 
question was a serious one to her, and very serious 
she made it, till I almost despaired of our evei 
coming to an understanding on the subject. 


72 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRAETCES. 


‘‘ On every other point she was unassuming almost 
to non-entity. She was w^eak-minded to the verge of 
mental palsy. She was more benevolent in deed, and 
more wandering in conversation, than any one I have 
met with since. That is, in ordinary life. In the 
greenhouse or garden (with which she and the head 
gardener alone had any real acquaintance) her accu- 
rate and profound knowledge would put to shame 
many professed garden botanists I have met with 
since. From her I learnt what little I know of the 
science of horticulture, and with her I spent many 
happy hours over the fine botanical works in the 
manor library, which she alone ever opened. 

“And so I became reconciled to things as they 
were, though to this day I connect with that shade of 
feiiille-morie satin a disappointment not to be forgotten. 

» V » « « « * 

“ It is a dull story, is it not, Ida ? ” said the little 
old lady, pausing here. She had not told it in pre- 
cisely these words, but this was the sum and substance 
of it. 

Ida nodded. Not that she had thought the story 
dull, so far as she had heard it, and whilst she was 
awake j but she had fallen asleep, and so she nodded. 


MJ?S. MOSS. 


73 


Mrs. Overtheway looked back at the fire, to which, 
indeed, she had been talking for some time past. 

“ A child’s story ? she thought. ‘‘ A tale of the 
blind, wilful folly of childhood ? Ah, my soul ! Alas, 
my grown-up friends ! Does the moral belong to child- 
hood alone? Have manhood and womanhood no 
passionate, foolish longings, for which we blind our- 
selves to obvious truth, and of which the vanity does 
not lessen the disappointment ? Do we not still toil 
after rosebuds, to find feiiilles-mortes ? ” 

No .voice answered Mrs. Overtheway’s fanciful 
questions. The hyacinth nodded fragrantly on its 
stalk, and Ida nodded in her chair. She was fast 
asleep — happily asleep — with a smile upon her face. 

The shadows nodded gently on the walls, and like 
a shadow the little old lady stole quietly away. 

When Ida awoke, she found herself lying partly in 
the arm-chair, and partly in the arms of Nurse, who 
was lifting her up. A candle flared upon the table, 
by the fire stood an empty chair, and the heavy scent 
that filled the room was as sweet as the remembrance 
of past happiness. The little old lady had vanished, 
and, but for the hyacinth, Ida would almost have 
doubted whether her visit had not been a dream. 


74 MRS, OVERTHEWATS REMEMBRANCES 


‘‘ Has IMrs. Cvertheway been long gone, Nursey ? ” 
she asked, keeping her eyes upon the flower-pot. 

‘‘Ever so longl” said Nurse, “and here youVe 
been snoring away, and the old lady’s been down- 
stairs, telling me how comfortably you were asleep, 
and she’s coming again to-morrow evening, if you’re 
good,” 

It was precisely twelve minutes since Mrs. Overthe- 
way left the house, but Nurse was of a slightly exag- 
gerative turn of mind, and few people speak exactly 
on the subject of time, especially when there is an 
opportunity of triumphing over someone who has 
been asleep before bed-time. The condition of Ida’s 
jeing good was also the work of Nurse’s own instruc- 
tive fancy, but Ida caught eagerly at the welcome 
news of another visit. 

“ Then she is not angry with me for falling asleep, 
Nursey? I was so comfortable, and she has such a 
nice voice, I couldn’t help it ; I think I left off about 
the pugs. I wish I had a pug with a wrinkled black 
snout, don’t you, Nursey?” 

“ I’m sure I don’t. Miss Ida. My father kept all 
sorts of pigs, and we used to have one with a black 
snout and black spots, but it was as ugly as ugly 


MRS. MOSS. 


75 


could be; and I never could fancy the bacon would 
be fit to eat. You must have been dreaming, I^m 
sure ; the old lady would never tell you about such 
rubbish, I know.’’ 

“ It’s pugs, not pigs, Nursey ; and they’re dogs, you 
know,” said Ida, laughing. ‘‘ How funny you are ! 
And indeed she did tell me, I couldn’t have dreamt it ; 
I never dreamt anything so nice in my life.” 

And never will, most likely,” said Nurse, who was 
very skilful in concluding a subject which she did not 
want to discuss, and who was apt to do so by a rapid 
twist in the line of argument, which Ida would find 
somewhat bewildering. ‘‘But, dear Miss Ida,” she 
continued, “ do leave off clutching at that chair-arm, 
when I’m lifting you up ; and your eyes ’ll drop out of 
your head, if you go on staring like that.” 

Ida relaxed the nervous grasp, to which she had 
been impelled by her energy on the subject of the 
pugs, let down her eyebrows, and submitted to be 
undressed. The least pleasant part of this ceremony 
may be comprised in the word curl-papers. Ida’s hair 
was dark, and soft, and smooth, but other little girls 
wore ringlets, and so this little girl must wear ringlets 
too. To that end her hair was every night put into 


76 MJ^S. OVERTHEWArS REMEMBRANCES. 


curl-papers, with much tight twisting and sharp jerk- 
ing, and Ida slept upon an irregular layer of small 
paper parcels, which made pillows a mockery. With 
all this, however, a damp day, or a good romp, would 
sometimes undo the night’s work, to the great disgust 
of Nurse. In her last place, the young lady’s hair 
had curled with a damp brush, as Ida well knew, and 
Nurse made so much of her own grievance, in having 
to use the curl-papers, that no place was left for Ida’s 
grievance in having to sleep upon them. She sub- 
mitted this night therefore, as other nights, in patience, 
and sat swinging her feet and accommodating her 
head to the sharp tugs, which always seemed to come 
from unexpected quarters. Perhaps, however, her 
mind may have been running a little upon grievances, 
which made her say : 

“ You know, Nursey, how you are always telling me 
I ought to be thankful for having things, and not 
having things, and ” 

‘‘I wish you’d talk sense, and not give way with 
your head so when I pull. Miss Ida,” retorted Nurse, 
‘‘ having things, and not having things ; I don’t know 
what you mean.” 

‘‘Well, you know, Nursey, the other day when I 


MRS, MOSS, 


77 


said I didn’t like bread*and-treacle treacled so long 
before, and soaked in, and you said I ought to be 
thankful that I had bread-and-treacle at all, and that 
I hadn’t a wooden leg, and to eat anything I could 
get, like the old sailor-man at the corner; well, do 
you know, I’ve thought of something I am so thankful 
for, and that is that I haven’t a red screen to my 
bed.” 

‘‘I really do think. Miss Ida,” said Nurse, ‘‘that 
you’ll go out of your mind some day, with your out- 
landish fancies. And where you get them, I can’t 
think. I’m sure I never put such things into youi 
head.” 

Ida laughed again. . 

“Never mind, Nurseyj it all belongs to the pug 
story. Am I done now? And when you’ve tucked 
me up, please, would you mind remembering to put 
the flower where I can see it when I wake?” 

Nurse did as she was asked, and Ida watched the 
hyacinth till she fell asleep ; and she slept well. 

In the morning, she took her old post at the win- 
dow. The little old lady had never seemed so long 
in making her appearance, nor the bells so slow to 
begin. Chim ! chime ! chim ! chime 1 There they 


78 MRS. OVERTIIEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


were at last, and there was Mrs. Overtheway. She 
looked up, waved a bunch of snowdrops, and went 
after the bells. Ida kissed her hand, and waved it 
over and over again, long after the little old lady was 
out of sight. 

There’s a kiss for you, dear Mrs. Overtheway,” 
she cried, ‘‘ and kisses for your flowers, and your 
house, and everything belonging to you, and for the 
bells and the church, and everybody in it this morn- 
ing, and ” 

But, at this point of universal benevolence. Nurse 
carried her off to breakfast. 

The little old lady came to tea as before. She 
looked as well as ever, and Nurse was equally generous 
of the matter of tea and toast. Mrs. Overtheway told 
over again what Ida had missed in the story of Mrs. 
Moss, and Ida apologized, with earnest distress, for 
her uncivil conduct in falling asleep. 

‘‘There I was snoring away, when you were telling 
me such a delightful story !” she exclaimed, penitently. 

“Not snoring exactly, my dear,” smiled the little 
old lady, “ but you looked very happy.” 

“ I thought Nursey said so,” said Ida. “ Well, I’m 
very glad. It would have been too rude. And you 


MRS, MOSS 


79 


know I don't know how it was, for I am so fond of 
stories ; I like nothing so welld' 

“Well, shall I try again?’' said Mrs. Overtheway. 
“ Perhaps I may find a more amusing one, and if it 
does put you to sleep, it won’t do any harm. Indeed, 
I think the doctor will say I’m very good company 
fur you.” 

“You are very good! That / can tell him,” said 
Ida, fervently, “and please let it be about yourself 
again, if you can remember anything. I like true 
stories.” 

“ Talking of snoring,” said Mrs. Overtheway, “ re- 
minds me of something that happened in my youth, 
and it is true, though, do you know, it is a ghost story.” 

Ida danced in her chair. 

“That is just what I should like !” she exclaimed : 
“Nurse has a ghost story, belonging to a farm-house, 
which she tells the housemaid, but she says she can’t 
tell me till I am older, and I should so like to hear 
a ghost story, if it isn’t too horrid.” 

“ This ghost story isn’t too horrid, I think,” laughed 
the little old lady, “ and if you will let me think a few 
minutes, and then forgive my prosy way of telling it, 
you shall have it at once.” 


8o MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


There was a pause. The little old lady sat silent, 
and so sat Ida also, with her eyes intently fixed on 
Mrs. Overtheway’s face, over which an occasional 
smile was passing. 

‘‘ If s about a ghost who snored,” said the little old 
lady, doubtfully. 

‘‘Delicious!” responded Ida. The two friends 
settled themselves comfortably, and in some such 
words as these was told the following story. 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


Clown. Madman, thou errest : I say there is no darkness but 
Ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in 
their fog. . . . What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning 
wild fowl ? 

Alalvolio* That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a 
bird. 

Clown. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? 

Malvolio. I think nobly of the soul, and in no way approve hia 
opinion. 


Twelfth Nighty iv. 2, 


THE SNORING GHOST 


*‘T REMEMBER,” said Mrs. Overtheway, “I rc- 
member my first visit. That is, I remember the 
occasion when I and my sister Fatima did, for the 
first time in our lives, go out visiting without our 
mother, or any grown-up person to take care of us.” 
Do you remember your mother ? ” asked Ida. 

“ Quite v/ell, my dear, I am thankful to say. The 
best and kindest of mothers 1 ” 

Was your father alive, too ? ” Ida asked, with a sigh. 

The old lady paused, pitying the anxious little face 
opposite, but Ida went on eagerly ; 

‘‘ Please tell me what he was like.” 

He was a good deal older than my mother, who 
had married very early. He was a very learned man. 
His tastes and accomplishments were many and 


84 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES, 


various, and he was very young-hearted and enthu* 
siastic in the pursuit of them all his life. He was apt 
to take up one subject of interest after another, and to 
be for the time completely absorbed in it And, I 
must tell you, that whatever the subject might be, sc 
long as his head was full of it, the house seemed full 
of it too. It influenced the conversation at meals, 
the habits of the household, the names of the pet 
animals, and even of the children. I was called 
Mary, in a fever of chivalrous enthusiasm for the fair 
and luckless Queen of Scotland, and Fatima received 
her name when the study of Arabic had brought 
about an eastern mania. My father had wished to call 
her Shahrazad, after the renowned sultana of the 
* Arabian Nights,* but when he called upon the curate 
to arrange for the baptism, that worthy man flatly re- 
belled. A long discussion ended in my father’s making 
a list of eastern names, from which the curate selected 
that of Fatima as being least repugnant to the sobriety 
of the parish registers. So Fatima she was called, and 
as she grew up pale, and moon-faced, and dark-eyed, 
the name became her very well.” 

‘‘Was it this Fatima who went out visiting with 
you ? ” asked Ida. 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


85 


Yes, my dear ; and now as to the visit. The in- 
vitation came on my thirteenth birthday. 

“ One^s birthday is generally a day of some import- 
ance. A very notable day whilst one is young, but 
less so when one is old, when one is being carried 
quickly through the last stages of life, and when it 
seems hardly worth while to count time so near the 
end of the journey. Even in youth, however, some 
birthdays are more important than others. I remem- 
ber looking forward to my tenth birthday as to a high 
point of dignity and advancement ; and the just pride . 
of the occasion on which I first wrote my age with 
more figures than one. With similar feelings, I longed 
to be thirteen. The being ^ble to write my age with 
two figures had not, after all, shed any special lustre 
upon life ; but when I was ‘ in my teens ’ it must ‘ feel 
different somehow.* So I thought. Moreover, this 
birthday was really to bring with it solid advantages. 

I was now to be allowed to read certain books of a 
more grown-up character than I had read hitherto, 
and to sit up till nine o’clock. I was to wear sandals 
to my shoes. My hair was henceforth to grow 
as long as I and the Fates would permit, and the skirts 
of my frocks were to take an inch in the same 


S6 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


direction. ‘ In four more years/ I said to Fatima, as 
we sat on the eve of my birthday, discussing its mani- 
fold advantages, ‘ in four more years I shall be grown 
up. Miss Ansted was introduced at seventeen.* The 
prospect was illimitable. 

“ ‘ Do people always grow much on their birthdays ? * 
asked one of the little ones. I had boasted in the 
nursery, that when I was thirteen I should be ^ nearly 
grown up,* and I myself had hardly outlived the idea 
that on one*s birthday one was a year older than on 
the previous day, and might naturally expect to have 
made a year’s growth during the night. 

“This birthday, however, produced no such strik- 
ing change. As usual, the presents were charming; 
the wreath as lovely as Fatima’s deft fingers could 
make it, the general holiday and pleasure-making 
almost too much of a good thing. Otherwise, 
there was little to mark it from other days in the 
year. 

“ Towards evening we were all sitting on the grass, 
the boys with their heads on the sisters* laps, and there 
had been an outcry for a story, to which no one had 
responded ; partly, perhaps, because the exquisite air 
of evening seemed a sufficient delight, the stillness too 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


87 


profound to be lightly disturbed. We had remained 
for some time without speaking, and the idea was 
becoming general among the girls that the boys were 
napping, when the summer silence was broken by the 
distant footfalls of a horse upon the high road. 

“ ‘ Trotting ! ' 

observed one of the supposed sleepers. We were not, 
as a family, given to explanations, and we drew a few 
more breaths of the evening air in silence. Then 
someone said : 

‘ We might make a story out of that, and fancy all 
sorts of things. Who is it ? Where does he come 
from, and where is he going to ? ' 

‘ It is a messenger from the seat of war,’ drawled 
the boy in my lap, without moving. Then, lifting 
his curly head for a moment, he cried, ‘ To horse I 
gentlemen, to horse 1 The enemy will be at Carter’s 
Mill by midnight ! ’ 

‘‘ There was a pause ; the solitary footfalls came 
nearer through the evening mists, and a small brother, 
of a quaint turn of mind, much given to the study of 
the historical portions of the Old Testament, sat up 
and said, slowly : 

‘‘ ‘ It is one of Job’s messengers. The Chaldeans 


88 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


made out three bands^ and fell upon the camels^ and 
have carried them away^yea^ and slain the servants with 
the edge cf the sword ; and I only am escaped alone to 
idl theel 

“ The other boys laughed, but he lay down again, as 
solemnly as he had risen. 

‘ That was a foot-messenger,^ said my boy, con- 
temptuously. 

‘ It doesn't say so,' retorted the small brother. 

** ‘ Well, any way, the camels had been carried off— 
so what did he ride upon ? ' 

‘‘A squabble was imminent. I covered my boy's 
face with a handkerchief, to keep him quiet. 

‘‘ ‘ Listen ! ' I said. ‘ It's the post The mail from 
the north was stopped on the highway, but he has 
saved the bags, and is riding hard for London.' 

« ‘ It's ' 

But the new suggestion was drowned in a general 
shout of — 

‘‘ ‘ It’s coming up the lane ! ' 

‘‘The footfalls had diverged from the main road, 
and were coming up the sandy lane that skirted our 
wall. The boys lifted their heads, and we sat expec* 
tant. There was a pause, and a familiar gate-click. 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


89 

and then the footfalls broke upon the carriage-road, 
close by us. A man in livery, upon a well-groomed 
horse — nothing more, but rather an uncommon sight 
with us. Moreover, the man and his livery were 
strange, and the horse looked tired. 

‘‘This event broke up the sitting, and we were 
strolling up to the house, when a maid met us, saying 
that my mother wished to see me and Fatima. 

“We found my mother sewing, with an opened 
letter beside her. It was written on one of the large 
quarto sheets then in use, and it was covered and 
crossed, at every available comer, in a vague, scratchy 
hand. 

“ ‘ I have heard from an old friend of mine, Mary,’ 
said my mother. ‘ She has come to live about twelve 
miles from here. There is something in the letter 
about you and Fatima, and you may read that part 
aloud, if you can. The top of the last page.’ 

“ I found the place, and, with some difficulty, de- 
ciphered : ‘ The dear Major was all delicacy and con- 
sideration — 

“ ‘ No, no ! ’ said my mother, ‘ the next sentence.’ 

“‘Dear Cecilia was all sweetness. The dress 


90 MRS. OVERl^HEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


‘‘My mother took the letter, and found -the right 
place herself, and then I read ; 

“ ‘ If you cannot come yourself, at least let us renew 
acquaintance in our children. I think you have two 
girls about thirteen? My Lucy, a dear child just 
fifteen, feels keenly the loss of her only sister, and 
some young companions would be a boon, as all our 
company will be elders. Pray send them. They can 
come by the coach, and shall be met at Durnford, at 
the Elephant and Castle.* 

“ ‘ Is the other sister dead ?* asked Fatima, pityingly, 
when we had discussed our personal interest in the 
subject. 

“ ‘ Oh, no 1 only married,* said my mother. 

“ It was decided that we should go. This decision 
was not arrived at at once, or without some ups and 
downs. My mother could not go herself, and had 
some doubts as to our being old enough, as yet, to go 
out visiting alone. It will be believed that I made 
much of being able to say — ‘But you know, I am 
thirteen, now.* 

“ Next day, in the evening, my father was busy in 
his study, and my mother sat at the open window, 
with Fatima and me at her feet. The letter of ac- 






WATCHING CLOUDS. 


Page 91 












THE SNORING GHOST. 


9X 

ceptance had been duly sent by the messenger, but 
she had yet a good deal of advice to give, and some 
doubts to express. She was one of those people who 
cannot sit with idle fingers, and as she talked she 
knitted. We found it easy enough to sit idle upon 
two little footstools, listening to the dear kind voice, 
and watching two little clouds, fragments of a larger 
group, which had detached themselves, and were sail- 
ing slowly and alone across the heavens. 

‘‘ ‘ They are like us two,’ Fatima had whispered to 
me; ^perhaps they are going to see some other 
clouds.’ 

“‘I have observed two things which are apt to 
befall young people who go out visiting,’ said my 
mother, as she turned a row in her knitting, ‘ one is, 
that they neglect little good habits while they are 
away, and the other is, that they make themselves very 
disagreeable when they come back;’ 

“The clouds drifted on, and my mother continued 
her knitting, arming us with many wise counsels on 
small matters connected with this great event; to 
which Fatima and I gratefully gave half our minds, 
whilst with the other half we made rosy pictures of 
unparalleled excellence under trying circumstancea^. 


9 * MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


by which, hereafter, we should prove these warnings 
and counsels to have been, in our case, unnecessary 
and superfluous. 

“ ‘ Most families and most people,’ said my mothei, 
*have little good habits and customs of their own 
which they feel bound to keep, although they are not 
among the great general duties which bind every one. 
So long as young people are at home, these matters 
are often simple enough, but when they go away cer- 
tain difficulties arise. They go amongst people whose 
little habits are not the same as those to which they 
have been accustomed. Sometimes they come to very 
uncharitable conclusions upon their friends’ characters 
in consequence. And, I must say, that I have never 
met with any one who could be more severe than 
young people of your age are apt to be. I remember 
it of myself, and I have seen it in so many other girls. 
Home is naturally the standard, and whatever is 
different seems wrong. As life goes on, these young 
critics learn (or should learn) to distinguish between 
general and particular duties; and also coming to 
know a larger number of people, they find that all 
good persons are not cut to the same pattern, and 
that one’s friends’ little ways are not therefore absurd, 


THE SNORING GHOST, 


93 


because one does not happen to be used to them. On 
the other hand, if going amongst other people may 
tempt you to be critical of their little habits, it is also 
apt to make you neglect your own. Perhaps you 
think this cannot much matter, as they are not the 
great duties, and as other people seem to get on quite 
well without them. But one learns in the end, that 
no character of any value is formed without the dis- 
cipline of individual rules, and that rules are of no use 
that are not held to against circumstances. ‘‘Charitable 
to others, severe to himself,’* seems a maxim for grown- 
up people in grown-up things ; but, I believe, my little 
daughters, that the doubts and difficulties of life begin 
very early, earlier than they are commonly provided 
against; I think that innumerable girls struggle miser- 
ably in the practice of duty, from a radical ignorance 
of its principles, and that the earlier these are learnt, 
the smaller is the burden of regret one heaps together 
to oppress the future, and the sooner one finds that 
peace of mind which is not common even amongst 
the young, and should-be lighthearted.’ 

“ In these, or words to this effect, my dear mother 
prepared us for our first plunge into society. We dis- 
cussed the little good habits we were to maintain, and, 


94 MRS, OVERTHEWArS REMEMBRANCES. 


amongst others, certain little Sunday customs — for we 
were to be away for a week. 

‘‘ ‘ We can’t take all our good habits with us, if you 
won’t come,’ I said. ‘What is to become of the 
Sunday readings ? ’ 

“ For my mother used to read to us every Sunday 
evening, and we were just in the middle of that book 
of wondrous fascination — ‘ The Pilgrim’s Progress.’ 

“ ‘ If it were not for the others, and if you would 
trust us with it,’ said Fatima, thoughtfully, ‘we might 
take the book with us, and Mary might read to me, if 
she would, — I like her reading.’ 

“ My mother consented. There was another copy 
in the house, and though this volume was a favourite, 
she said it was time we learnt to take care of valuable 
books. So it was settled. We talked no more that 
evening ; and the clouds drifted out of sight. 

“ ‘ They have gone to bed in a big dark cloud on 
the other side,’ said Fatima, yawning; and we went 
to bed also. 

“My story wanders, Ida; this is because it is an 
old woman’s tale. Old people of my age become 
prosy, my dear. They love to linger over little re- 
membrances of youth, and to recall the good counsels 


THE SNORING GHOST 


95 


of kind voices long silent. But I must not put you to 
sleep a second time, so I will not describe the lists of 
good habits which Fatima and I drew up in fine 
Roman characters, and which were to be kept as good 
resolutions had never been kept before. We borrowed 
the red ink, to make them the more ipipressive to the 
eye, and, unfortunately, spilt it. A bad beginning, as 
many of our rules had reference to tidiness. Neither 
will I give you the full account of how we packed. 
How our preparations began at once, and were only 
stopped by the nece;ssity of setting off when the day 
arrived. How we emptied all our drawers and cup- 
boards, and disarranged both our bookshelves ; and, 
in making ready for the life of order and tidiness we 
were to live abroad, passed that week at home with 
our room in such chaos as it had never been before. 
How we prepared against an amount of spare time, 
that experience eventually teaches one is not to be 
found out visiting; and, with this object, took more 
sewing than we should have performed in a month at 
home; books, that we had not touched for years; 
drawings, that were fated to be once touched, and no 
more. 

“ I will not describe the big box, which my fathef 


96 MRS, OVERTHE WAY'S REMEMBRANCES, 


lent to us, nor the joys of packing it. How Fatima’s 
workbox dove-tailed with my desk. How the books 
(not having been chosen with reference to this great 
event) were of awkward sizes, and did not make com- 
fortable paving for the bottom of the trunk ; whilst 
folded stockings may be called the packer’s delight, 
from their usefulness to fill up corners. How, having 
packed the whole week long, we were barely ready 
and a good deal flurried at the last moment ; and how 
we took all our available property with us, and left 
the key of the trunk behind. Fancy for yourself, how 
the green coach picked us up at the toll-bar, and how, 
as it jingled on, we felt the first qualm of home-sick- 
ness, and, stretching our heads and hands out of the 
window, waved adieux and kisses innumerable to 
Home, regardless of our fellow-traveller in the corner, 
an old gentleman, with a yellow silk-handkerchief on 
his head, who proved in the end a very pleasant com- 
panion. I remember that we told him our family 
history with minutest particulars, and conjugated four 
regular Latin verbs by his orders ; and that he re- 
warded our confidences and learning with the most 
clear, the most sweet, the most amber-coloured sticks 
of barley-sugar I have ever had the good fortune to 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


97 


meet with. I remember also how, in the warmth of 
our new friendship, Fatima unveiled to him the future, 
which, through some joke of my father’s, we had laid 
out for ourselves. 

“ ‘ I am to marry a Sultan, for I am moon-faced > 
but Mary is to be a linguist, for she has large eyes.' 

‘‘ ‘ Then Miss Mary is not to marry ? ’ said the old 
gentleman, with a grim smile. 

I shook my head in sage disdain. ‘ When I am 
sixteen, I shall be an Amazon.' 

“Precisely what I meant by this I don’t think I 
knew myself, but my dreams were an odd compound 
of heroic and fairy lore, with a love and ambition for 
learning that were simply an inheritance. Many a 
night did I fancy myself master of all the languages of 
the world, hunting up and down the windy hills in a 
dress of Lincoln green. I had a mighty contempt for 
men, and a high respect for myself, that was the 
greatest of my many follies. 

“ After these interesting revelations we had barley- 
sugar all round, and the coach rattled into Durnford. 

“ Shall I tell you how we were met at the Elephant 
and Castle by a footman of most gentlemanlike appear- 
ance (his livery excepted), who, with a sagacity which 
H 


98 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


somewhat puzzled us, discovered that we were ‘the 
young ladies that were expected,’ and led us to the 
carriage, firmly opposing my efforts to fulfil the last 
home orders I had received, to ‘ look after the box ? * 
How in the carriage we found a lady handsomely 
dressed in black, who came out to meet us, and 
seemed so anxious for our comfort, and so much 
interested in our arrival, that we naturally supposed 
her to be the lady who had invited us, till we dis- 
covered that she was the lady’s maid ; and on arriving 
found our hostess quite another sort of person, with 
no appearance at all of being particularly interested in 
our arrival, which 1 have since found to be the case 
with the heads of some other country houses. 

“ It was a large house, reminding me of the Manor 
within, but prettier outside ; old and irregularly built, 
with mullioned windows, and odd wings and comers. 
A glowing, well-kept garden contrasted prettily with 
the grey stone, and the grounds seemed magnificent to 
our eyes. 

“ We were shown into the drawing-room, where the 
real lady of the house sat at a dainty writing-table, 
scratching away at a letter that was no doubt as affec- 
tionate as the one which my mother had received. 


THE SNORING GHOST 


99 


She was shortsighted, which seemed to be the case 
also with most of the other ladies in the room ; this, 
perhaps, was why they stared so hard at us, and then 
went on with the elaborate pieces of needlework on 
which all of them were engaged. It seemed to take 
our hostess a second or two to see us, and another 
second or two to recall who we were; then she came 
forward very kindly, showed us where to sit,^and asked 
after my mother. Whilst I was replying, she crossed 
to the fireplace, and rang the bell ; and I felt slightly 
surprised by her seeming to wish for no further news 
of her old friend. She asked if we had had a pleasant 
journey, and Fatima had hardly pronounced a modest 
yes, before she begged we would allow her to finish 
her letter, and went back to the spindle-legged table. 
Whilst she scratched we looked around us. Three or 
four ladies were in the room, more or less young, more 
or less pretty, more or less elegantly dressed, and all 
with more or less elaborate pieces of needlework. 
There was one gentleman, young and dark, with large 
brown eyes, who seemed to be employed in making 
paper pellets of an old letter, chatting the while in a 
low voice to a young lady with a good deal of red 
hair. We afterwards found out that he was. an Irish* 


100 MRS. OVERTHEWATS REMEMBRANCES. 


man, familiarly called ‘ Pat ' by some of the young 
ladies, wha seemed to be related to him. We had 
seen all this when the man-servant appeared at the 
door. 

“ ‘ Where is Miss Lucy, Thompson ? ’ our hostess 
asked, sharply. 

“ ‘ I will inquire, ma’am,’ Thompson replied, with 
the utmost softness, and vanished. 

“ The scratching began again, the Irishman went on 
gently chatting, and it all felt very like a horrid dream. 
Then Thompson reappeared. 

* Miss Lucy is out, ma’am.’ 

“ ‘ Did she know what time these young ladies were 
to arrive ? ’ 

“ ‘ Miss Lucy knew that the carriage had gone to 
meet them, ma’am.’ 

“‘Very thoughtless! Very thoughtless indeed!’ 
said the lady. ThompscRi paused respectfully, as if to 
receive the full weight of the remark, and then vanished 
noiselessly, as before. 

“There was an awkward pause. Our hostess left 
off scratching, and looked very cross ; the Irishman 
fired one of his pellets across the room, and left off 
chatting; and the. red-haired young lady got up, and 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


lOI 


rustled across to us. I remember her so well, Ida, for 
we fell deeply in love with her and her kindness. 1 
remember her green and white dress. She had a fair 
round face, more pleasant than really pretty, a white 
starlike forehead, almost too firm a mouth, but a very 
gentle voice, at least so we thought, when she said : 

‘‘ ‘ As Lucy is out, may I take these young ladies to 
their room ? ^ 

“ Our hostess hesitated, and murmured something 
about Bedford, who was the lady's maid. The starlike 
forehead contracted, and the red-haired young lady 
said, rather emphatically : 

‘‘ ‘ As Lucy is not in to receive her friends, I thought 
I might perhaps supply her place.' 

“ ‘ Well, my dear Kate, if you will be so kind,' said 
our hostess. ‘ I must finish these letters.' 

‘‘ ‘ The yellow room ?' said the young lady, abruptly, 
and swept us off without further parley. The Irish 
gentleman opened the door for us, staring with a half- 
puzzled, half-amused look at the lofty air with which 
the young lady passed out. He followed us into the 
hall, where we left him discharging his remaining 
pellets at the furniture, and whistling ‘ Kathleen Ma- 
vourneen,' as clearly as a bird. 


102 MRS. OVERTIIEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


“ The yellow room was a large airy one, with white ’ 
painted wainscoting, a huge four-post bed with yellow / 
curtains, and a pretty view from the windows. In the 
middle of the floor we saw our box standing in all its ^ 
dignity, uncorded, and ready. Then it was the terrible 
fact broke upon our minds that the key was left be- ' 

hind. My sufferings during the few seconds before I ] 

found courage to confide this misfortune to our new 
friend were considerable. When I did tell her, the \ 
calmness and good nature with which she received the \ 
confession were both surprising and delightful. j 

“‘The lock doesn’t look a very uncommon one,’ ^ 

she said, as she opened the door. ‘ I dare say I may A 

find a key to fit it.’ \ 

“ ‘ What’s the matter ? ’ said a voice outside. It 

was the Irish gentleman. She explained. ' 

. \ 

“ ‘ Keys ? ’ said the Irish gentleman ; ‘ got lots in { 
my pocket, besides their being totally unnecessary, ; 

as I’m a capital hand at lock-picking. Let me j 
see.’ I 

“ With which he slipped in, seeming quite as much j 
at his ease as in the drawing-room, and in another 
second had squatted upon the floor before our box, • 
where he seemed to be quite as comfortable as in the ^ 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


arm-chair he had left. Here he poked, and fitted, and 
whistled, and chatted without a pause. 

‘ IVe locks and keys to everything I possess,* he 
cheerfully remarked; ‘and as I never lock up any- 
thing, there’s no damage done if the keys are left 
behind, which is a good thing, you see, as I always 
leave everything everywhere.* 

“ ‘ Do you make a principle of it ? * asked the young 
lady, coldly. 

“ ‘ I’m afraid I make a practice of it.* He had 
opened the box, and was leaning against the bed-post, 
with a roguish twinkle in his brown eyes, which faded, 
however, under the silent severity of the red-haired 
young lady, and gave place to a look of melancholy 
that might have melted granite, as he added : 

“ ‘ I’m all alone, you see, that’s what does it. I 
believe I’m the neatest creature breathing, if I’d only 
somebody to keep me up to it.’ 

“Neither his hardened untidiness nor his lonely lot 
seemed, however, to weigh heavily on his mind ; for 
he withdrew whistling, and his notes were heard about 
the passages for some little time. When they had 
died away in a distant part of the house, the red-haired 
young lady left us also. 


104 OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


“ I shall not give you a lengthened account of our 
unpacking, dear Ida ; though it was as enjoyable, but 
less protracted than the packing-up had been. How 
we revelled in the spacious drawers and cupboards, 
over which we were queens, and how strictly we 
followed one of our mother’s wise counsels — ‘ unpack 
to the bottom of your box at once, however short your 
visit may be ; it saves time in the end.* We did un- 
pack to the lowest book (an artificial system of 
memory, which I had long been purposing to study, 
which I thought to find spare moments to get up here, 
and which, I may as well confess, I did not look 
at during the visit, and have not learnt to this day). 
We divided shelves and pegs with all fairness, and as 
a final triumph found a use for the elaborate watch- 
pockets that hung above our pillows. They were rich 
with an unlimited expenditure of quilled ribbon, 
and must have given a great deal of trouble to 
someone who had not very many serious occupations 
in this life. Fatima and I wished that we had watches 
to put in them, till the happy thought suddenly struck ^ 
one of us, that we could keep in them our respective 
papers of good habits. 

‘‘ Bedford came in whilst we were in the midst of 


THE SNORING GHOST 105 

our labours, and warmly begged us to leave everything 
to her, as she would put our things away for us. The 
red-haired young lady had sent her, and she became a 
mainstay of practical comfort to us during our visit. 
She seemed a haven of humanity after the conventions 
of the drawing-room. From her we got incidental 
meals when we were hungry, spirits of wine when 
Fatima's tooth z 'hed, warnings when we were near to 
being l#e for breakfast, little modern and fashionable 
turns to our hair and clothes, and familiar anecdotes 
of this household and of others in which she had lived. 
I remember her with gratitude. 

Miss Lucy came home before our putting away 
was fairly finished, and we had tea with her in the 
schoolroom. She was a slight, sharp, lively young 
lady, looking older than fifteen to us, rather pretty, and 
very self-possessed. She scanned us from head to 
foot when we first met, and I felt as if her eyes 
had found defects innumerable, which seemed the 
less likely, as she also was shortsighted. As her 
governess was away visiting a sick relative, Miss Lucy 
did the honours of the schoolroom. She was cold 
and inattentive at first, became patronizing at tea, 
and ended by being gracious. In her gracious mood 


io6 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES, 


she was both affectionate and confidential. She 
called us ‘ my dear girls/ put her arms round us as we 
sat in the dark, and chattered without a pause about 
herself, her governesses, her sister, and her sister’s 
husband. 

‘ A wedding in the house,* she observed, ‘ is very 
good fun, particularly if you take a principal part in it. 
I was chief bride’s-maid, you know, my dear girls. 
But I’ll tell you the whole affair from the fir^f: You 
know I had never been bride’s-maid before, and I 
couldn’t make up my mind about how I should like 
the dresses,’ &c., &c. And we had got no further in the 
story than Miss Lucy’s own costume, when we were 
called to dress and go downstairs. 

“ ‘ What are you going to put on ? ’ she asked, 
balancing herself at our door and peering in. 

‘ White muslin ! ’ we said with some pride, for 
they were new frocks, and splendid in our eyes. 

“ ‘ I have had so many muslins, I am tired of them,* 
she said ; ‘ I shall wear a pink silk to-night. The 
trimming came from London. Perhaps I may wear a 
muslin to-morrow ; I have an Indian one. But you 
shall see my dresses to-morrow, my dear girls.’ 

“With which she left us. and we put on our new 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


107 


frocks (which were to be the evening dresses of our 
visit) in depressed spirits. This was owing to the 
thought of the pink silk, and of the possibility of a 
surfeit of white muslin. 

‘^During the evening we learnt another of Miss 
Lucy’s peculiarities. Affectionate as she had been 
when we were alone together, she was no sooner 
among the grown-up young ladies downstairs than she 
kept with them as much as she was permitted, and 
seemed to forget us altogether. Perhaps a fit of par- 
ticularly short sight attacked her ; for she seemed to 
look over us, away from us, on each side of us, any- 
where but at us, and to be quite unconscious of our 
existence. The red-haired young lady had made her 
fetch us a large scrap-book, and we sat with this before 
our eyes, and the soft monotonous chit-chat of our 
hostess in our ears, as she talked and worked with 
some elder ladies on the sofa. It seemed a long 
gossip, with no particular end or beginning, in which 
tatting, trimmings, military distinction, linens, servants, 
honourable conduct, sentiment, settlements, expecta- 
tions, and Bath waters, were finely blended. From 
the constant mention of Cecilia and the dear major, it 
was evident that the late wedding was the subject of 


fo8 MRS, OVERTBElVArS REMEMBRANCES. 


discourse; indeed, for that matter, it remained the 
prime topic of conversation during our stay. 

“ Cecilia and the dear major were at Bath, and 
their letters were read aloud at the breakfast-table. I 
remember wondering at the deep interest that all the 
ladies seemed to take in the bride’s pretty flow of 
words about the fashions, the drives, and the pump- 
room, and the long lists of visitors’ names ; this, too, 
without any connection between the hearers and the 
people and places mentioned. When anybody did 
recognize a name, however, about which she knew 
anything, it seemed like the finding of a treasure. All 
the ladies bore down upon it at once, dug up the 
family history to its farthest known point, and divided 
the subject among them. Miss Lucy followed these 
letters closely, and remembered them wonderfully, 
though (as I afterwards found) she had never seen 
Bath, and knew no more of the people mentioned 
than the little hearsay facts she had gathered from 
former letters. 

“ It is a very useful art, my dear Ida, and one in 
which I have sadly failed all my life, to be able to re- 
member who is related to whom, what watering-place 
such a family went to the summer before last, and 


THE SNORING GHOST, 


109 


which common friends they met there, &c. But like 
other arts it demands close attention, forbids day- 
dreaming, and takes up a good deal of time. 

Wasilt it odd,’ said Miss Lucy, one morning 
after breakfast, ‘that Cecilia and the major should 
meet those Hicksons ? ’ 

“ ‘ Who are the Hicksons ?’ I asked. 

“ Oh ! my dear girl, don’t you remember, in Cecilia’s 
last letter, her telling us about the lady she met in that 
shop when they were in town, buying a shawl the 
counterpart of her own? and it seems so odd they 
should turn up in Bath, and be such nice people! 
Don’t you remember mamma said it must be the 
same family as that Colonel Hickson who was en- 
gaged to a girl with one eye, and she caught the small- 
pox and got so much marked, and he broke it off? ’ 
“‘Small-pox and one eye would look very ugly,^ 
Fatima languidly observed ; and this subject drifted 
after the rest. 

“One afternoon, I remember, it chanced that we 
were left alone with our hostess in the drawing-room. 
No one else happened to be in the way to talk to, 
and the good lady talked to us. We were clever girls 
for our age, I fancy, and we had been used to talk a 


no MRS, OVERTHEWAYS REMEMBRANCES, 


good deal with our mother; at any rate we were at- 
tentive listeners, and I do not think our hostess re- 
quired much more of us. I think she was glad of 
anybody who had not heard the whole affair from 
beginning to end, and so she put up her feet on the 
sofa, and started afresh with the complete histoiy of 
her dear Cecilia from the cradle ; and had gone on to 
the major, his military exploits abroad, his genteel con- 
nections at home, and the tendency to gout in the family 
which troubled him at times, and was a sad anxiety to 
her dear child, when visitors were announced. 

‘‘ Our intelligent attention had gained favour for us ; 
and we were introduced to these ladies as ‘ daughters 
of a very dear friend of mine, whom I have not seen 
for years, ^ on which one lady gave a sweet glance and 
a tight smile and murmured : 

“‘So pleasant to renew acquaintance in the chil- 
dren and the other ladies gave sweet glances, and 
tight smiles also, and echoed : 

“ ‘ So pleasant ! ’ 

“ ‘ Such sensible girls ! ' said our hostess, as if we 
were not there ; ‘ like women of fifty. So like their 
dear mother 1 Such treasures to my little Lucy 1 
You know she has lost her dear sister,' &c., &c. 


THE SNORING GHOST 


111 


For then the ladies drew together, and our hostess 
having got a fresh audience, we retired to distant arm- 
chairs, a good deal bewildered. 

“ But to return to our first evening. 

“ Miss Lucy and we retired together, and no sooner 
had the drawing-room door closed behind us, than 
she wound her arms round our waists, and became as 
devoted as if we had been side by side the whole 
evening. 

‘‘ ‘ I’ll tell you what I’ll do, my dear girls,’ she said 
when we reached our room ; ‘ I’ll come and sleep 
with you (there’s lots of room for three), and then I 
can go on about Cecilia’s affair, and if we don’t finish 
to-night we can go on to-morrow morning before we 
get up. I always wake early, so I can call you. I’ll 
come back when I’m ready for bed. 

‘‘ And she vanished. 

“ We were in bed when she returned. Her hair 
had been undergoing some wonderful process, and was 
now stowed away under a large and elaborate night- 
cap. 

^ Bedford was so slow,’ said she ; ‘ and then, you 
know, I got into bed, and let her tidy the room, and 
then when she was fairly gone, out I got, and here I 


II2 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


am. We shall be as comfortable as possible ; 1^11 be 
in the middle, and then I can have you on each side 
of me, my dear girls;' and in she sprang. 

‘‘ ‘ Did you notice this ? ' she asked, holding up her 
hand, and pointing out the edging on the sleeve of her 
night-dress; ‘it’s a new pattern; do you know it? 
Oh ! my dears, the yards and yards of tatting that 
Cecilia had for her trousseau ! ’ 

‘‘ Fatima and I were not rich in tatting edges, and 
rejoiced when the conversation took another turn. 

“ ‘ About the proposal,' she rambled on ; ‘do you 
know I don't really know whereabouts Henry (that is 
the major, my brother-in-law,’ she added, with one of 
the little attacks of dignity to which she was subject) 
‘ proposed or what he said. I asked Cecy, but she 
wouldn't tell me. She was very cross, often ; I'm 
very glad she's married. I think sisters ought to 
marry off as fast as they can ; they never get on well 
in a house together, you know.* 

“ I fairly gasped at this idea, and Fatima said 
bluntly : 

“ ‘ There are lots of us, and we get on.* 

“ ‘ Ah 1 ' said Miss Lucy, in tones of wisdom ; ‘ wait 
till you're a little older, and you'll see. Cecy was at 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


ii3 

school with two sisters who hated each other like 
poison, and they were obliged to dress alike, and the 
younger wore out her things much faster than the 
other one, but she was obliged to wear them till her 
sister^s were done. She used to wish so her sister 
would marry, Cecy said, and the best fun is, now they^re 
both in love with the same man. He’s the curate of 
the church they go to.’ 

^ Which of them is he in love with ? ’ I asked. 

‘‘ ‘ Oh, neither that I know of,’ said Miss Lucy com- 
posedly. ‘They don’t know him, you know; but 
they sit close under the pulpit, and they have such 
struggles about which shall get into the corner of the 
pew that’s nearest. Cecy and I weren’t like that ; but 
still I’m very glad she’s married. Now wasn’t it sjtupid 
of her not to tell me ? I should never have told any- 
body, you know. And don’t you wonder what gentle- 
men do say, and how they say it ? He couldn’t pro- 
pose sitting, and I think standing would be very awk- 
ward. I suppose he knelt. Aunt Maria doesn’t ap- 
prove of gentlemen kneeling ; she says it’s idolatry. I 
think they must look very silly. Cecy wouldn’t even 
tell me what he said. She said he spoke to mamma, 
and mamma said his conduct was highly honourable ; 

I 


1 14 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


but I think it was very stupid. Dp you know, my 
dears, I have a cousin who was really married at Gretna 
Green? She married an officer. He was splendidly 
handsome ; but people said things against him, and 
her parents objected. So they eloped, and then went 
to Wales, to such a lovely place ! Wasn’t it romantic? 
They quarrelled afterwards though; he lives abroad 
now. People ought to be careful. I shall be very 
careful myself; I mean to refuse the first few offers 
Iget/’ 

“ And so Miss Lucy rambled on, perfectly uncon- 
scious of the melancholy and yet ludicrous way in 
which she degraded serious subjects, which she was 
not old enough to understand, or wise enough to 
reverence. We were too young then to see it fully; 
but her frivolity jarred upon us, though she amused us, 
and excited our curiosity. She was not worse than many 
other girls, with plenty of inquisitiveness and sharp 
sense, and not too much refinement and feeling ; whose 
accomplishments are learnt from the ‘ first masters,’ 
and whose principles are left to be picked up from 
gossip, servants, and second-rate books ; digested by 
ignorant, inquisitive, and undisciplined minds. 

I won’t try to recall any more of it, dear Ida. I 


THE SNORING GHOST. 115 

remember it was a continuous stream of unedifying 
gossip, varied by small boastings about her own family. 

‘ WeVe so many connections,^ was a favourite phrase of 
Miss Lucy^s, and it seemed to mean a great deal. ‘Do 
yon like making trees?' she asked. I was getting 
sleepy, and without much thought replied, ‘I love 
trees beyond anything, and I like growing oak trees 
in bottles.' Miss Lucy's, ‘ My dear girl, I mean family 
trees, genealogical trees,' was patronizing to scorn. 

‘ Ours is in the spring drawer of the big oak cabinet 
in the drawing-room,' she added. ‘ We are descended 
from King Stephen.' 

“ I believe I was the first to fall asleep that night. 
The last words I remember hearing were ‘ We’ve so 
many connections.' 

“The next day’s post brought news from Bath of 
more general interest to the household. The plans of 
Cecilia and the major were changed; they were coming 
to her mother’s on the following Monday. 

“ ‘ My dear girls, I am so glad 1 ' said Miss Lucy ; 
you'll see them. But you will have to move out of 
your room, I'm sorry to say.' 

“And for the next twelve hours Miss Lucy was 
more descriptive of her family glories in general, and 


ii6 MRS, OVERTHEWAV^S REMEMBRANCES, 


of the glories of her sister and brother-in-law in par- 
ticular, than ever. 

‘‘Sunday was a day of mixed experiences to us; 
some pleasant and some the reverse. Miss Lucy in 
her best clothes was almost intolerably patronizing, 
and a general stiffness seemed to pervade everything, 
the ladies’ silk dresses included. After breakfast we 
dawdled about till it was time to dress for church, 
and as most of the ladies took about five minutes more 
than they had allowed for, it seemed likely that we 
should be late. At the last moment. Miss Lucy lost 
her Prayer Book, and it was not till another five 
minutes had gone in the search that she remembered 
having left it in church the Sunday before. This 
being settled we all stowed away in the carriages and 
drove off. It was only a short drive ; but when we 
came in sight of the quaint little church there was no 
sound of bells, and it became evident that we were 
late. In the porch we shook out our dresses, the 
Irishman divided the burden of Prayer Books he had 
been gallantly bearing, our hostess turned back from 
the half-open door to say in a loud and encouraging 
whisper, ‘ It’s only the Confession ; ’ and we swept up 
the little church into a huge square pew 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


1 17 

*‘My dear Ida, I must tell you that we had been 
brought up to have a just horror of being late for ser- 
vice, this being a point on which my father was what 
is called ‘very particular/ Fatima and I therefore 
felt greatly discomposed by our late and disturbing 
entrance, though we were in no way to blame. We 
had also been taught to kneel during the prayers, and 
it was with a most uncomfortable sensation of doubt 
and shame-facedness that we saw one lady after another 
sit down and bend her bonnet over her lap, and 
hesitated ourselves to follow our own customs in the 
face of such a majority. But the red-haired young 
lady seemed fated to help us out of our difficulties. 
She sank at once on her knees in a comer of the 
pew, her green silk falling round her ; we knelt by her 
side, and the question was settled. The little Irishman 
cast a doubtful glance at her for a moment, and then 
sat down, bending his head deeply into his hat. We 
went through a similar process about responding, 
which did not seem to be the fashion with our hostess 
and her friends. The red-haired young lady held to 
her own custom^i3 however, and we held with her. Our 
responses were the less conspicuous as they were a 
good deal drowned by the voice of an old gentleman 


Ii8 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


in the next pew. Diversity seemed to prevail in the 
manners of the congregation. This gentleman stood 
during prayers, balancing a huge Prayer Book on the 
comer of the pew, and responding in a loud voice, 
more devout than tuneful, keeping exact time with the 
parson also, as if he had a grudge against the clerk 
and felt it due to himself to keep in advance of him. 
I remember, Ida, that as we came in, he was just say- 
ing, * those things which we ought not to have done,’ 
and he said it in so terrible a voice, and took such a 
glance at us over his gold-rimmed spectacles, that 1 
wished the massive pulpit-hangings would fall and 
bury my confusion. When the text of the sermon had 
been given out, our hostess rustled up, and drew the 
curtains well round our pew. Opposite to me, how- 
ever, there was a gap through which I could see the 
old gentleman. He had settled himself facing the 
pulpit, and sat there gazing at the preacher with a 
rigid attention which seemed to say — ‘ Sound doctrine, 
if you please ; I have my eye on you.’ 

“ We returned as we came. 

“ ‘ Is there afternoon service?’ I asked Miss Lucy. 

‘‘ ‘ Oh, yes ! ’ was the reply, ‘ the servants go in the 
afternoon.’ 


THE SNORING GHOST, 


119 


‘ Don^t you ? ’ I asked. 

^ Oh, no ! ’ said Miss Lucy, ‘ once is enough. You 
can go with the maids, if you want to, my dears,’ she 
added, with one of the occasional touches of insolence 
in which she indulged. 

“Afternoon arrived, and I held consultation with 
Fatima as to what we were to do. 

“When once roused, Fatima was more resolute 
than I. 

“ ‘ Of course we’ll go,’said she ; ^ what’s the use of hav- 
ing written out all our good rules and sticking at this ? 
We always go twice at home. Let’s look for Bedford. 

“ On which mission I set forth, but when I reached 
the top of the stairs I caught sight of the red-haired 
young lady, in her bonnet and shawl, standing at the 
open door, a Prayer Book in her hand. I dashed 
downstairs, and entered the hall just as the Irishman 
came into it by another door. In his hand was a 
Prayer Book also, and he picked up his hat, and went 
smiling towards her. But as he approached the young 
lady, she looked so much annoyed — not to say cross— 
that I hesitated to go forwards. 

“ ‘ Are you going to church ? ’ said the little Irish- 
man, with a pleased look. 


120 MJ^S. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


‘‘ ‘ I don’t know/ said the young lady, briefly, ‘ are 

you?’ 

was ’ he began, and stopped short, looking 

puzzled and vexed. 

‘‘ ‘ Is no one else going ? ’ he asked, after a moment’s 
pause. 

“ ‘ No one else ever does go,’ she said, impatiently, 
and moved into the hall. 

“ The Irishman coloured. 

‘ I am in the habit of going twice myself, though 
you may not think it,’ he said, quietly; ‘my poor 
mother always did. But I do not pretend to go to 
such good purpose as she did, or as you would, so if it 

is to lie between us ’ and, without finishing his 

sentence, he threw his book (not too gently) on to the 
table, and, just lifting his hat as he passed her, dashed 
out into the garden. 

“I did not at all understand this little scene, but, 
as soon as he was gone, I ran up to ask our friend if 
she were going to church, and would take us. She 
consented, and I went back in triumph to Fatima. 
As there was no time to lose, we dressed quickly 
enough ; so that I was rather surprised, when we went 
down, to find the Irish gentleman, with his face re- 


THE SNORING GHOST 


121 


Stored to its usual good humour, standing by our 
friend, and holding her Prayer Book as well as his 
own. The young lady did not speak, but, cheerfully 
remarking that we had plenty of time before us, he 
took our books also, and we all set forth. 

‘‘I remember that walk so well, Ida! The hot, 
sweet summer afternoon — the dusty plants by the 
pathway — the clematis in the hedges (I put a bit into 
my Prayer Book, which was there for years) — the 
grasshoppers and flies that our dresses caught up from 
the long grass, and which reappeared as we sat during 
the sermon. 

‘‘ The old gentleman was in his pew, but his glance 
was almost benevolent, as, in good time, we took our 
places. We (literally) followed his example with much 
heartiness in the responses ; and, if he looked over 
into our pew during prayers (and from his position he 
could hardly avoid it), he must have seen that even 
the Irishman had rejected compromises, and that we 
all knelt together. 

There was one other feature of that service not to 
be forgotten. When the sermon was ended, and I 
had lost sight of the last grasshopper in my hasty 
rising, we found that there was to be a hymn. It was 


122 MRS, OVERTHEIVAY^S REMEMBRAATCES. 


the old custom of this church so to conclude Evening 
Prayer. No one seemed to use a book — it was Bishop 
Ken’s evening hymn, which every one knew, and, 1 
think, every one sang. But the feature of it to us was 
when the Irishman began to sing. From her startled 
glance, I think not even the red-haired young lady had 
known that he possessed so beautiful a voice. It had 
a clearness without effort, a tone, a truth, a pathos, 
such as I have not often heard. It sounded strangely 
above the nasal tones of the school-children, and the 
scraping of a solitary fiddle. Even our neighbour, 
who had lustily followed the rhythm of the tune, 
though without much varying from the note on which 
he responded, softened his own sounds and turned to 
look at the Irishman, who sang on without noticing it, 
till, in the last verse, he seemed disturbed to discover 
how many eyes were on him. Happily, self-conscious- 
ness had come too late. The hymn was ended. 

‘‘We knelt again for the Benediction, and then went 
back through the summer fields. 

‘‘ The red-haired young lady talked very little. Once 
she said : 

“ ‘ How is it we have never heard you sing ? * 

“ To which the Irishman replied : 



THE IRISH GENTLEMAN, 


Page 122, 








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THE SNORING GHOST. 


123 


" ‘ I don’t understand music, I sing by ear ; and 1 
hate ^company’ performances. I will sing to you 
whenever you like.’ 

‘ Mary/ said Fatima, when we were in our room 
again, ‘ I believe those two will marry each other some 
day.’ 

‘‘‘So do V I answered; ‘but don’t say anything 
about it to Lucy.’ 

“‘No, indeed !’ said Fatima, warmly. So we kept 
this idea sacred from Miss Lucy’s comments — why, I 
do not think either of us could have told in words. 

“Pity, that pleasant impressions — pity, that most 
impressions — pass away so soon ! 

“ The evening was not altogether so satisfactory as 
the afternoon had been. First, Miss Lucy took us to 
see her sister’s wedding-presents, most of which were 
still here in her mother’s keeping. They were splendid, 
and Miss Lucy was eloquent. From them we dawdled 
on into her room, where she displayed her own trea- 
sures, with a running commentary on matters of taste 
and fashion, which lasted till it was time to drees for 
the evening, when she made the usual inquiry, ‘ What 
shall you put on to-night, my dear girls?’ and we 


124 MRS. OVERl'ffEWArS REMEMBRANCES. 


blushed to own that there was nothing further of out 
limited toilettes to reveal. 

In the drawing-room, similar subjects of con- 
versation awaited us. Our hostess and her friends did 
not seem to care much for reading, and, as they did 
not work on Sunday evening, they talked the more. 
The chatter ran chiefly upon the Bath fashions, and 
upon some ball which had been held somewhere, 
where somebody had been dressed after a manner that 
it appeared needful to protest against; whilst somebody 
else (a cousin of our hostess) was at all points so per- 
fectly attired, that it seemed as if she should have 
afforded ample consolation for the other lady’s defects. 

“ Upon the beauty of this cousin, her father’s wealth, 
and her superabundant opportunities of matrimony, 
Miss Lucy enlarged to us, as we sat in a corner. 
Another of her peculiarities, by-the-by, was this. By 
her own account, all her relatives and friends were 
in some sense beautiful. The men were generally 
* splendidly handsome ; * the ladies, ‘ the loveliest 
creatures.’ If not ‘ lovely,’ they were ‘ stylish ; ’ if 
nothing else, they were ‘charming.’ For those who 
were beyond the magic circle, this process was re- 
versed. If pretty, they ‘wanted style.’ If the dress 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


125 


was beyond criticism, the nose, the complexion, the 
hand was at fault. I have met with this trait in other 
cliques, since then. 

“ My dear Ida, I wish to encourage no young lad^ 
of the hoydenish age of thirteen, in despising nice 
dressing and pretty looks and manners ; or in neglect 
ing to pick up any little hints which she may glean in 
such things from older friends. But there are people 
to whom these questions seem of such first importance, 
that to be with them when you are young and im- 
pressionable, is to feel every defect in your ov/n per- 
sonal appearance to be a crime, and to believe that 
there is neither worth, nor love, nor happiness (no 
life, in fact, worth living for,) connected with much 
less than ten thousand a year, and ‘connections.’ 
Through some such ordeal we passed that evening, 
in seeing and hearing of all the expensive luxuries 
without which it seemed impossible to feed, dress, 
sleep, go out — in fact, exist; and all the equally ex- 
pensive items of adornment, without which it appeared 
to be impossible to have (or at any rate retain) the 
respect and affection of your friends. 

“ Meanwhile the evening slipped by, and our 
Sunday reading had not been accomplished. We 


126 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


had found little good habits less easy to maintain in 
a strange household than we had thought, and this 
one seemed likely to follow some others that had 
been allowed to slip. The red-haired young lady had 
been absent for about half an hour, and the Irishman 
had been prowling restlessly round the room, perform- 
ing murdero js-looking fidgets with the paper-knives, 
when she returned with a book in her hand, which 
she settled herself resolutely to read. The Irishman 
gave a comical glance at the serious-looking volume, 
and then seating himself on a chair just behind her, 
found apparent peace in the effort to sharpen a flat 
ruler on his knees. The young lady read on. It 
was evident that her Sunday customs were not apt to 
be disturbed by circumstances. 

‘‘I began to feel uncomfortable. Fatima was 
crouched down near Lucy, listening to the history oi 
a piece of lace. I waited some little time to catch 
her eye, and then beckoned her to me. 

“ ‘ We haven’t read,’ I whispered. 

“‘Dare you go?’ asked Fatima. 

“ ‘ We ought,’ I said. 

“ It required more daring than may appear. To 
such little peopb as ourselves it was rather an under- 


THE SNORING GHOST 


127 


taking to cross the big drawing-room, stealing together 
over the soft carpet ; to attack the large, smooth 
handle, open the heavy door, and leave the room in 
the face of the company. We did it, however, our 
confusion being much increased by the Irish gentle- 
man, who jumped up to open the door for us. We 
were utterly unable to thank him, and stumbling over 
each other in the passage, flew up to our own room 
like caged birds set free. 

“ Fatima drew out the pillows from the bed, and 
made herself easy on the floor. I found the book, 
and climbed into the window-seat. The sun was set- 
ting, the light would not last much longer; yet I 
turned over the pages slowly, to find the place, which 
was in the second part, thinking of the conversation 
downstairs. Fatima heaved a deep sigh among her 
cushions, and said ; ‘ I wish we were rich.’ 

“ ‘ I wish we were at home,’ I answered. 

“ ‘ When one’s at home,’ Fatima continued, in dole- 
ful tones, ‘ one doesn’t feel it, because one sees nobody; 
but when one goes among other people, it is wretched 
not to have plenty of money and things. And it’s no 
good saying it isn’t,’ she added hurnedly, as if to close 
the subject. 


i 28 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


“ * It^s getting dark/ I said. 

‘‘ ‘ I beg your pardon : go on/ sighed Fatima. 

“ I lifted up my voice, and read till I could see no 
longer. It was about the Valley of Humiliation, 
through which Mr. Greatheart.led Christiana and her 
children. The ‘ green valley, beautified with lilies,’ in 
whose meadows the air was pleasant ; where ‘ a man 
shall be free from the noise and from the hurryings of 
this life ; ’ and where ‘ in former times men have met 
with angels.^ 

‘‘ The last streaks of crimson were fading in the sky 
when I read the concluding lines of the shepherd-boy^s 
song — 

‘ Fulness to such a burden is, 

That go on pilgrimage, 

Here little, and hereafter bliss, 

Is best from age to age.’ 

‘ Here little, and hereafter bliss !’ 

‘‘ It is not always easy to realize what one believes. 
One needs sometimes to get away from the world 
around, ‘ from the noise and from the hurryings of this 
life,’ and to hear, read, see, or do something to remind 
one that there is a standard which is not of drawing- 
rooms; that petty troubles are the pilgrimage of the 
soul ; that great and happy lives have been lived here 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


129 


by those who have had but little ; and that satisfying 
bliss is not here, but hereafter. 

We went downstairs slowly, hand in hand. 

‘ I v^ronder what Mother is doing,’ said Fatima. 

“The next day Miss Lucy very good-naturedly 
helped us to move our belongings into the smaller 
room we were now to occupy. It was in another part 
01 the house, and we rather enjoyed the running to 
and fro, especially as Miss Lucy was gracious and 
communicative in the extreme. 

“ ‘ This is the oldest part of the house,’ she said, as 
we sat on the bed resting from our labours, for the day 
was sultry ; ‘ and it breaks off here in an odd way. 
There are no rooms beyond this. There were some 
that matched the other side of the house, but they 
were pulled down.’ 

“ < Why ? ’ we asked. 

u i V/eli, there’s a story about it, in the family,’ said 
Miss Lucy, mysteriously. ‘ But it’s a ghost story. I’ll 
tell you, if you like. But some people are afraid of 
ghost stories. I’m not ; but if you are, I won’t 
tell it’ 

Of course we declared we were not afraid Silting 

K 


ISO MAS. OVEA THE WAV'S AEMEMBRANCES. 


there together, on a sunny summer’s afternoon, perhaps 
we were not. 

“ ‘ It’s years and years ago,’ began Miss I^ucy ; ‘ you 
know the place has belonged to another branch of our 
family for generations. Well, at last it came down to an 
old Mr. Bartlett, who had one daughter, who, of course, 
was to be the heiress. Well, she fell in love with a 
man whose name I forget, but he was of inferior family, 
and very queer character ; and her father would not 
hear of it, and swore that if she married him he would 
disinherit her. She would have married the man in 
spite of this, though ; but what he wanted was her 
money ; so, when he found that the old man was quite 
resolute, and that there was no chance of his dying, 
soon, he murdered him.’ 

‘‘We both exclaimed ; for this sudden catastrophe 
fairly took away our breath. Miss Lucy’s nerves were 
not sensitive, however, and she rattled on. 

“ ‘ He smothered him in bed, and, as he was a very 
old man, and might easily have died in the night some 
other way, and as nothing could be proved, he got off. 
Well, he married the daughter, and got the property ; 
but the very first evening after he took possession, as 
he was passing the door of the old man’s room, h<» 


THE SHORING GHOST 


131 

heard somebody breathing heavily inside, and when he 
looked in, there was the old father asleep in his bed.’ 

“‘Not really ? ’ we said. 

“ ‘Of course not really,’ said Miss Lucy, ‘ but so it 
was said. That’s the ghost part of it. Well, do what 
he would, he never could get rid of the old man, 
who was always there asleep ; so he pulled the rooms 
down, and at last he went abroad, and there both he 
and his wife died, and the property went to a cousin, 
who took the name of Bartlett’ 

“ ‘ How awful ! ’ we murmured. But Miss Lucy 
laughed, and told us other family anecdotes, and the 
ghost story somewhat passed from our minds, especially 
as a little later we heard wheels, and, peeping from the 
landing window, beheld a post-chaise drive up. 

“ ‘ It’s Cecilia I ’ screamed Miss Lucy, and left us at 
once. 

“ I may as well say here, my dear Ida, that Cecilia 
and the major proved altogether different from our ex- 
pectations. Cecilia, in travelling gear, taking off an 
old bonnet, begging for a cup of tea, and complaining 
in soft accents that butter was a halfpenny a pound 
dearer in Bath than at home, seemed to have no con- 
nection with that Cecilia into the trimmings of whose 


133 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


dresses bank-notes had recklessly dissolved. The 
major, an almost middle-aged man, of roughish ex- 
terior, in plain clothes, pulling his moustache over a 
letter that had arrived for him, dispelled our visions of 
manly beauty and military pomp even more effectually. 
Later on, we discovered that Cecilia was really pretty, 
soft, and gentle, a good deal lectured by her mother, 
and herself more critical of Miss Lucy’s dress and 
appearance than that young lady had been of ours. 
The major proved kind and sensible. He was well-to- 
do, and had ‘ expectations,* which facts shed round 
him a glory invisible to us. They seemed a happy 
couple ; more like the rest of the world than we had 
been led to suppose. 

“ The new-comers pretty well absorbed our attention 
during the evening, and it was not till we were fairly 
entering the older part of the house on our way to bed, 
that the story of the old man’s ghost recurred to my 
mind. It was a relief to meet Bedford at this point, to 
hear her cheerful good-night, and to see her turn into 
a room only two doors from ours. Once while we 
were undressing I said : 

‘ What a horrid story that was, that Lucy told 

us !* 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


133 


“To which sensible Fatima made answer: ‘Don’t 
talk about it.’ 

“ We dismissed the subject by consent, got into bed, 
and I fell asleep. I do not quite know how far on it 
was into the night when I was roused by Fatima’s voice 
repeating my name over and over again, in tones of 
subdued terror. I know nothing more irritatingly 
alarming, when one is young and nervous, than to be 
roused thus, by a voice in which the terror is evident 
and the cause unknown. 

“ ‘ What’s the matter ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Don’t you hear?’ gasped Fatima, in a whispei. 

If she had said at once that there was a robber 
under the bed, a burglar at the window, or a ghost in 
the wardrobe, I should have prepared for the worst, 
and it would have been less alarming than this unknown 
evil. 

“ ‘ I hear nothing,* I said, pettishly. ‘ I wish you’d 
go to sleep, Fatima.’ 

“ ‘ There ! — now ! ’ said Fatima. 

“ I held my breath, and in the silence heard dis* 
tinctly the sound of some one snoring in an adjoining 
apartment. 

“ ‘ It’s only some one snoring,’ I said. 


1S4 OVERTHEIVAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


* Where ? ' asked Fatima, with all the tragedy in 
her voice unabated. 

“ ‘ In the room behind us, of course,’ I said, im- 
patiently. ‘ Can’t you hear ? ’ 

‘‘Fatima’s voice might have been the voice of a 
shadow as she answered : ‘ T^ere is no room therd 
“ And then a cold chill crept over me also ; for I 
remembered that the wall from behind which the 
snoring unmistakeably proceeded was an outer wall. 
There had been the room of old Mr. Bartlett, which 
his son-in-law and murderer had pulled down. There 
he had been heard ‘ breathing heavily,’ and had been 
seen asleep upon his bed, long after he was smothered 
in his own pillows, and his body shut up in the family 
vault. At least, so it was said, and at that particular 
moment we felt no comfort from the fact that Miss 
Lucy had said that ‘ of course it wasn’t true.’ I said 
something, to which Fatima made no reply, and I 
could feel her trembling, and hear a half-choked sob. 
I think fear for her overpowered my other alarm, and 
gave me a sort of strength. 

“ ‘ Don’t, dear,’ I begged. ‘ Let’s be brave. It 
must be something else. And there’s nothing in the 
room. Let’s go to Bedford. She’s next door but one.’ 






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THE SNORING GHOST. 


Page 13s 













THE SNORING GHOST. 


135 


• “ Fatima could speak no more. By the moonlight 
through the blind, I jumped up, and half dragged, 
half helped her out of bed and across the room. 
Opening the door was the worst. To touch anything 
at such a moment is a trial. We groped down the 
passage ; I felt the handle of the first door, and turned 
that of the second, and in we went. The window- 
blind of this room was drawn up, and the moonlight 
streamed over everything. A nest of white drapery 
covered one chair, a muslin dress lay like a sick ghost 
over a second, some little black satin shoes and web- 
like stockings were on the floor, a gold watch and one 
or two feminine ornaments lay on the table ; and in 
the bed reposed — not Bedford, but our friend Kate, 
fast asleep, with one arm over the bed-clothes, and her 
long red hair in a pigtail streaming over the pillow. 
I climbed up and treated her as Fatima had treated 
me, calling her in low, frightened tones over and over 
again. She woke at last, and sat up. 

“‘You sprites ! What is the matter ?’ she exclaimed. 

“ I stumbled through an account of our misfortunes, 
in the middle of which the young lady lay down, and 
before it was ended I believe she was asleep again. 
Poor Fatima, who saw nothing before us but to return 


136 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


to our room with all its terrors, here began to sob 
violently, which roused our friend once more, and she 
became full of pity. 

“ ‘ You poor children ! * she said, ‘ I’m so sleepy. I 
cannot get up and go after the ghost now ; besides, 
one might meet somebody. But you may get into bed 
if you like ; there’s plenty of room, and nothing to 
frighten you.' 

‘‘ In we both crept, most willingly. She gave us the 
long tail of her hair, and said, ‘ If you want me, pull. 
But go to sleep, if you can I ’ — and, before she had well 
finished the sentence, her eyes closed once more. In 
such good company a snoring ghost seemed a thing 
hardly to be realized. We held the long plait between 
us, and, clinging to it as drowning men to a rope, we 
soon slept also. 

“When we returned to our room next day, there 
was no snoring to be heard, and in the full sunshine of 
a summer morning our fright seemed so completely a 
thing of the past, that I persuaded myself to suggest 
that it might have been ‘ fancy ’ (Kate had already ex- 
pressed her deliberate opinion to this effect), to which 
Fatima, whose convictions were of a more resolute 
type than mine, replied, ‘ What’s the use of trying to 


THE SNORING GHOST. 


137 


believe what^s not true ? I heard it ; and shall know 
that I heard it, if I live till I’m a hundred/ 

In all correct ghost stories, when the hero comes 
down in the morning, valiant, but exhausted from the 
terrors of the night, to breakfast, his host invariably 
asks him how he slept. When we came down, we 
found Kate and the Irishman alone together in the 
breakfast-room. Now it certainly was in keeping with 
our adventure when he stepped forward, and, bowing 
profoundly, asked how we had passed the night ; but, 
in spite of the gravity of his face, there was a twinkle 
in the big brown eyes which showed us that we were 
being made fun of ; and I felt slightly indignant with 
our' friend, who had faithfully promised not to betray 
us to Miss Lucy, and might, I thought, have saved us 
from the ridicule of the Irishman. The rest of the com- 
pany began to assemble, however, and to our relief the 
subject was dropped. But though the Irishman kept our 
secret, we had every reason to suspect that he did not 
forget it ; he looked terribly roguish through breakfast, 
and was only kept in order by Kate’s severe glances. 

“‘Always breathe through the nose,’ he suddenly 
began. ‘ It moderates the severity of the air, is less 
trying to the lungs, and prevents snoring.’ 


138 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


* Very true/ said the major, who was sensible, and 
liked instructive observations. 

“ ‘ It may be laid down as an axiom,^ continued the 
Irishman, gravely, ‘ that the man who snores is sure to 
disturb somebody ; and also that the man who doesn’t 
snore till he dies, is not likely to live to be a snoring 
ghost when he is dead.’ 

‘‘Kate looked daggers. The major laughed, and 
said, ‘ Let me give you some beef.’ When he didn’t 
understand a remark he always laughed, and generally 
turned the conversation to eatables, in which he was 
pretty safe ; for food is common ground, and a slight 
laugh answers most remarks, unless at a serious meet- 
ing or a visit of condolence. A little later the Irishrhan 
asked : ‘ What’s the origin of the expression, to stir up 
with a long pole ? ’ which turned the conversation to 
wild beasts. But he presently inquired : ‘ What’s the 
meaning of putting a thing up the spout ? ’ 

“ ‘ Pawning it,’ said the major, promptly. 

“ ‘ People pawn their family jewels sometimes,* said 
Pat. ‘Did you ever hear of anybody pawning the 
family ghosts ? ’ he asked, suddenly turning to me. I 
gave a distressed ‘ No,’ and he continued, in a whisper^ 
You never saw a ghost up the spout? * 


THE SNORING GHOST 


139 


“ But, before I could answer, he caught Kate^s eye, 
and, making a penitent face, became silent. 

We were in the drawing-room after breakfast, when 
the Irishman passed the window outside, whistling 
‘Kathleen Mavourneen.' We were sitting at Kate's 
feet, and she got up, and whispering, ‘ He's got some- 
thing to show you, but he wouldn't let me tell,' went 
out into the garden, we following her. 

“There we found the Irishman, with a long pole, 
which he was waving triumphantly in the air. He 
bowed as we approached. 

“ ‘ This, young ladies,' he said, ‘ is the original long 
pole spoken of at the breakfast-table. With this I am 
about to stir up and bring forth for your inspection 
the living and identical ghost whose snoring disturbed 
your repose last night.' 

“ The little Irishman's jokes reassured me. I 
guessed that he had found some clue to our mysterious 
noise; but with Fatima it was otherwise. She had 
been too deeply frightened to recover so easily. She 
clung trembling to me, as I was following him, and 
whispered ‘ I'd rather not.' 

“On her behalf I summoned courage to remon 
strate. 


140 MRS. OVERTHEIVAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


* If you please, sir,' I said, ‘ Fatima would rather 
not ; and, if you please, don’t tease us any more.’ 

‘‘The young lady added her entreaties, but they 
were not needed. The good-natured little gentleman 
no sooner saw Fatima’s real distress than he lowered 
his pole, and sank upon his knees on the grass, with a 
face of genuine penitence. 

^^^1 am so sorry IVe been tormenting you so ! * he 
exclaimed. ‘ I forgot you were really frightened, and 
you see I knew it wasn’t a ghost’ 

“ ‘ I heard it,' murmured Fatima, resolutely, with 
her eyes half shut 

“ ‘ So did I,’ said the Irishman, gaily ; ‘ I’ve heard 
it dozens of times. It’s the owls.’ 

“ We both exclaimed. 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ he said, comically, ‘ I see you don’t believe 
me ! That’s what comes of telling so many small fibs. 
But it’s true, I assure you. (And the brown eyes did 
look particularly truthful) Barn-door owls do make a 
noise that is very like the snoring of an old man. And 
there are some young ones who live in the spout at 
the corner of the wall of your room. They’re snoring 
and scrambling in and out of that spout all night.’ 

“ It was quite true, Ida, as we found, when Fatima 


THE SNORING GHOST, 


141 


was at last p^ersuaded to visit the corner where the 
rooms had been pulled down, and where, decorated 
with ivy, the old spout formed a home for the snoring 
owls. By the aid of the long pole he brought out a 
young one to our view, — ^a shy, soft, lovely, shadow- 
tinted creature, ghostly enough to behold, who felt 
like an impalpable mass of fluff, utterly refused to be 
kissed, and went savagely blinking back into his spout 
at the earliest possible opportunity. His snoring 
alarmed us no more.” 

“ And the noise really was that ? ’ said Ida. 

‘‘ It really was, iLy aeai ‘ 

“ It’s a splendid story,” said Ida ; ‘‘ you see, I didn’t 
go to sleep this time. And what became of everybody, 
please? Did the red-haired young lady marry the 
Irishman ? ” 

“ Very soon afterwards, my dear,” said Mrs. Over^ 
theway. ‘‘We kept up our friendship, too, in after 
life; and I have many times amused their children 
with the story of the Snoring Ghost” 



i 






i 



* \ 

• 



\ 



REKA DOM 


f 


‘What is home, and where, bxci w th the loving?” 

Felicia Hemans. 


REKA DOM. 


T last Ida was allowed to go out. She was well 



^ wrapped up, and escorted by Nurse 'n a short 
walk for the good of her health. It was not very 
amusing, but the air was fresh and the change pleasant, 
although the street did not prove quite that happy re- 
gion it had looked from the nursery windows. More- 
over, however strong one may fancy one has become 
indoors, the convalescents first efforts out of doors are 
apt to be as feeble as those of a white moth that has 
just crept from the shelter of its cocoon, giddy with 
daylight, and trembling in the open air. By-and-by 
this feeling passed away, and one afternoon Ida was 
allowed to go by herself into the garden, “just for a 


mn. 


The expression was metaphorical, for she was far 
from being able to run ; but she crept quietly up and 


/46 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


down the walks, and gathered some polyanthuses, put- 
ting them to her face with that pleasure which the 
touch of fresh flowers gives to an invalid. Then she 
saw that the hedge was budding, and that the gap 
through which she had scrambled was filled up. Ida 
thought of the expedition and smiled. It had cer- 
tainly made her very ill, but — it had led to Mrs. Over- 
theway. 

The little old lady did not come that day, and in 
the evening Ida was sent for by her uncle. She had 
not been downstairs in the evenings since her illness. 
These interviews with the reserved old gentleman were 
always formal, uncomfortable affairs, from which Ida 
escaped with a sense of relief, and that evening — 
being weak with illness and disappointed by Mrs. Over- 
thewa/s absence — her nervousness almost amounted 
to terror. 

Nurse did her best in the way of encouragement. It 
was true that Ida’s uncle was not a merry gentleman, 
but there was such a nice dessert ! What could a 
well-behaved young lady desire more than to wear her 
best frock, and eat almonds and raisins in the dining- 
room, as if she were the lady of the house ? 

“ Though I am sorry for the child,” Nurse confided 


REKA DOM. 


147 


to the butler when she had left Ida with her uncle, 
‘‘ for his looks are enough to frighten a grown person, 
let alone a little girl. And do you go in presently, 
like a good soul, if you can find an excuse, and let her 
see a cheerful face.^' 

But before the kind-hearted old man-servant could 
find a plausible pretext for intruding into the dining- 
room, and giving an encouraging smile from behind 
his master's chair, Ida was in the nursery once more. 

She had honestly endeavoured to be good. She 
had made her curtsey at the door without a falter — weak 
as she was. She had taken her place at the head of 
the table with all dignity, and had accepted the almonds 
and raisins with sufficiently audible thanks. She had 
replied prettily enough to her uncle’s inquiries after 
her health ; and, anxious to keep up the conversation, 
had told him that the hedge was budding. 

‘‘ Whafs the matter with the hedge ? ” he had 
asked rather sharply ; and when Ida repeated her bit 
of spring news, he had not seemed to be interested. 
It was no part of the gardener’s work. 

Ida relapsed into silence, and so did her uncle. 
But this was not all. He had sharp eyes, and fierce 
bushy eyebrows, from under which he was apt to 


148 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


scrutinize Ida in a way that seemed to scatter all her 
presence of mind. This night of all nights she found 
his eyes upon her oftener than usual. Whenever she 
looked up he was watching her, and hej discomfort 
increased accordingly. At last he broke the silence 
abruptly by saying : 

“ You were very sorry, child, were you not, when 
the news came of your father’s death ? ” 

The sudden introduction of this sacred subject 
made Ida’s head reel. 

“ What ? ” she cried, and could get no further. 

Have you forgotten already ? ” the old gentleman 
said, almost reprovingly. You did not know him, it 
is true ; but you must remember hearing that your 
poor father had been drowned at sea ? ” 

Ida’s only reply was such a passionate outburst of 
weeping that her uncle rang the bell in helpless dismay, 
and was thankful when the old butler lifted the child 
tenderly in his arms and carried her back to Nurse. 
The old gentleman’s feelings were more kindly than 
his looks, and he was really as much concerned as 
puzzled by the effect of his remarks. When the butler 
returned with the report that Ida was going quietly to 
bed, he sent her his “love” (the word seemed to 


J^EJiTA DOM, 


149 


Struggle with some difficulty from behind his neck- 
cloth), and all the remaining almonds and raisins. 

can’t eat them,” said Ida, smiling feebly, for her 
head was aching, “ but it is very kind of him ; and 
please tell Brown to tell him that 1 am very sorry, and 
please put the almonds and raisins into my box. I 
will make a doll’s feast with them, if ever I make dolls* 
feasts again.” 

With which the weary little maid turned upon her 
pillow, and at last forgot her troubles in sleep. 

The next morning Brown delivered a similar mes- 
sage from the old gentleman. He had gone away by 
an early train on business, but had left Ida his love. 

“ It’s very kind of him,” said Ida, again. But she 
went sadly on with some paper she was cutting 
into shapes. She was in low spirits this morning. 

Comfort was at hand, however. In the course of 
the day there came a message from Mrs. Overtheway, 
asking Nurse to allow Ida to go to tea with her that 
evening. And Nurse consented. 

Ida could hardly believe her senses when she found 
herself by the little old lady’s own fireside. How 
dainty her room was ! How full the bookshelves were J 
How many pictures hung upon the walls ! 


250 MI?S. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES, 


Above a little table, on which were innumerable 
pretty things, hung two pictures. One of these was ct 
portrait of a man who, from his apparent age, might 
have been the old lady^s son, but that he was not at all 
like her. He might have been good-looking, though, 
Ida thought, and he had a kind, intelligent face, full 
of energy and understanding, and that is better still. 
Close under his portrait hung a little sketch. It was 
of a road running by a river. Opposite to the river 
was a house and some trees. It was a pretty sketch, 
Ida thought, and the road looked interesting, as some 
roads do in pictures — making one wish to get into the 
frame and walk down them to see whither they lead. 
Below the sketch were some curious-looking charac- 
ters written in ink, and of these Ida could make nothing. 

Tea was soon ready. It was spread out on a little 
table by itself. The white cloth seemed to Ida the 
whitest she had ever seen, the silver and glass glittered, 
the china was covered with a rosebud pattern, and a 
reading-lamp threw a clear soft light over all. The tea, 
the cream, the brown bread and butter, the fresh eggs, 
and the honey — all were of the very best — even the 
waiting-maid was pretty, and had something of the old 
lady’s smile. 




I 

/ 



j 


150, 


1 . 


TEA WITH MRS. OVERTHEWAY 


Page 




REKA DOM. 


151 


When she had finished her duties by taking away 
the things, and putting the tea-table into a corner, the 
two friends drew up to the fire. 

You look better for tea, my child,” said the little 
old lady. “ Do you eat enough at home ? ” 

“ As much as I can,” said Ida ; “ but I am more 
hungry when somebody else has tea with me. There 
very seldom was anybody till you came though. Only 
once or twice Lady Cheetham’s housekeeper has been 
to tea. She is Nurse’s father’s first cousin, and ‘quite 
the lady,’ Nurse says. So she won’t let her have tea 
in the kitchen, so both she and Nurse have tea in the 
nursery, and we have lots of tea-cakes and jam, and 
Nurse keeps saying, ‘ Help yourself. Miss Ida ! Make 
yourselt' at home, Mrs. Savory ! ’ And, you know, at 
other times, she’s always telling me not to be all night 
over my tea. So I generally eat a good deal then, and 
I often laugh, for Nurse and Mrs. Savory are so 
funny together. But Mrs. Savory’s very kind, and 
last time she came she brought me a pincushion, 
and the time before she gave me a Spa mug and two 
apples.” 

Mrs. Overtheway laughed, too, at Ida’s rambling 
account, and the two were in high good humour. 


152 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


“ What shall I do to amuse you ? ” asked the little 
old lady. 

‘‘You couldn’t tell me another story?” said Ida, 
with an accent that meant, “ I hope you can ! ” 

“I would, gladly, my dear, but I don’t know what 
to tell you about ; ” and she looked round the room as 
if there were stories in the furniture, which perhaps 
there were. Ida’s eyes followed her, and then she 
remembered the picture, and said : 

“ Oh ! would you please tell me what the writing 
means under that pretty little sketch ? ” 

The little old lady smiled rather sadly, and looked 
at the sketch in silence for a few moments. Then 
she said : 

“ It is Russian, my dear. Their letters are different 
from ours. The words are ‘Reka Dom,’ and they 
mean ‘ River House. ” 

Ida gazed at the drawing with increased interest. 

“ Oh, do you remember anything about it ? If you 
would tell me about that ! ” she cried. 

But Mrs. Overtheway was silent again. She was 
looking down, and twisting some of the rings upon 
her little hand, and Ida felt ashamed of having asked. 

“I beg your pardon,” she said, imploringly. “I 


REKA DOM, 


153 


was very rude, dear Mrs. Overtheway; tell me what 
you like, please.’* 

You are a good child,” said the little old lady, “a 
very good child, my dear. I do remember so much 
about that house, that I fall into day-dreams when I 
look at it. It brings back the memories of a great 
deal of pleasure, and a great deal of pain. But it is 
one advantage of being old, little Ida, that Time 
softens the painful remembrances, and leaves us the 
happy ones, which grow clearer every day.” 

‘‘ Is it about yourself? ” Ida asked, timidly. She 
had not quite understood the little old lady’s speech ; 
indeed, she did not understand many things that Mrs. 
Overtheway said, but they were very satisfactory com- 
panions for all that. 

‘‘Yes, it is about myself. And since there is a dear 
child who cares about old Mrs. Overtheway, and her 
prosy stories, and all that befell her long ago,” said the 
little old lady, smiling affectionately at Ida, “I will 
tell her the story — my story — the story of Reka Dom.” 

“ Oh, how good of you 1 ” cried Ida. 

“ There is not much merit in it,” said the little old 
lady. “The story is as much for myself as you. I 
tell myself bits of it every evening after tea, more so 


154 MRS. OVERTHE WAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


now than I used to do. I look far back, and I en- 
deavour to look far forward. I try to picture a greater 
happiness, and companionship more perfect than any 
I have known ; and when I shall be able to realize 
them, I shall have found a better Home than Reka 
Dorn.” 

Ida crept to the little old lady’s feet, and softly 
stroked the slipper that rested on the fender. Then, 
while the March wind howled beyond the curtains, 
she made herself a cosy corner by the fire, and com- 
posed herself to hear the story. 

“ I remember,” said Mrs. Overtheway. ‘‘ I remem- 
ber Reka Dom. It was our new home. 

‘‘Circumstances had made it necessary that we 
should change our residence, and the new home was 
to be in a certain quiet little town, not much bigger 
than some big villages — a town of pebble streets and 
small shops, silent, sunny, and rather dull — on the 
banks of a river. 

“ My health at this time was far from robust ; but 
there is compensation even for being delicate in that 
spring-time of youth, when the want of physical 
strength is most irksome. If evening parties are for- 
bidden, and long walks impossible, the fragile member 


REKA DOM. 


155 


of the family is, on the other hand, the first to be 
considered in the matter of small comforts, or when 
there is an opportunity for ‘change of air.’ I ex- 
perienced this on the occasion when our new home 
was chosen. It had been announced to us that our 
father and mother were going away for one night, and 
that we were to be very good in the absence of those 
authorized keepers of the peace. We had not failed 
ourselves to enlarge this information by the discovery 
that they were going to the little town by the river, 
to choose the house that was to be our home ; but it 
was not till the night before their departure that I was 
lold that I was to go with them. I had been un- 
usually drooping, and it was supposed that the expe- 
dition would revive me. My own joy was unbounded, 
and that of my brothers and sisters was hardly less. 
They were generously glad for my sake, and they were 
glad, also, that one of the nursery conclave should be 
on the spot when the great choice was made. We 
had a shrewd suspicion that in the selection of a house 
our elders would be mainly influenced by questions of 
healthy situation, due drainage, good water supply, 
moderate rent, and so forth ; to the neglect of more 
important considerations, such as odd corners for 


156 MRS, OVERTHEWAV^S REMEMBRA yCES, 


hide-and-seek, deep window-seats, plenty of cupboards, 
and a garden adapted to the construction of bowers 
rather than to the cultivation of vegetables. I do not 
think my hopes of influencing the parental decision 
were great ; but still we all felt that it was well that I 
should be there, and my importance swelled with 
every piece of advice I received from the rest of the 
party. 

‘‘ ‘ It must be a big house, but, of course, that adds 
to the expense,^ said one of the elder boys, who prided 
himself upon being more grown-up in his views than 
the rest, and considering the question from an elderly 
point of view. ‘ But if you don^t take it out one way, 
you have it another,’ he continued. A manly-sound- 
ing sentence, which impressed us all. ‘ Don’t think 
about smartness, Mary,’ he went on, with a grand air 
of renouncing vanities ; ‘fine entrance, you know, and 
front door. But a good back yard, if possible, and 
some empty outhouses for carpenters’ shops; and if 
you could meet with a place with a few old boxes and 
barrels lying about, for rafts on the river and so forth, 
it would be a good thing.’ 

“ ‘ I want a tidy box for a new baby-house, dreads 
fully^ added a sister. 


DOM, 


157 


‘‘‘I hope there’ll be deep window-places/ sighed 
the luxurious Fatima, ‘ with print patchwork cushions, 
like those at the farm. And I hope some of them will 
face west, for the sunsets.’ 

‘‘‘Above air — and it was the final and most im- 
pressive charge I received — ‘ whatever else is wanting, 
let us have two tall trees for a swing.’ 

“ Laden with responsibility, but otherwise light- 
hearted enough, I set out with my parents by the early 
coach, which was to put us down about mid-day in the 
little town by the river. 

“ I liked travelling with my father. What a father 
he was ! But, indeed, he was an object of such special 
devotion to me, and his character exercised so strong 
an influence over my young days, that I think, my 
dear Ida, that I must take the old woman’s privilege 
of discursiveness, and tell you something about him. 

“ I remember that he was a somewhat mysterious 
personage in our young eyes. We knew little of his 
early life, and what we did know only enhanced the 
romantic mystery which we imagined to hang round 
it. We knew that he had seen many foreign lands, 
and in those days much travelling was rare. This 
accounted for the fact that, absent and somewhat 


158 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'^S REMEMBRANCES. 

unpractical as he was at home, he was invaluable on a 
journey, making arrangements, and managing officials 
with the precision of old habit. Where he had learnt 
his peculiar courtesy and helpfulness with those under 
his charge was less obvious. My mother said he had 
been accustomed to ‘good society’ in his youth, 
though we lived quietly enough now. We knew that, 
as a lad, he had been at sea, and sailors are supposed 
to be a handy and gentle-mannered race with the 
weak and dependent. Where else he had been, and 
what he had done, we did not exactly know; but I 
think we vaguely believed him to have been con- 
cerned in not a few battles by land and sea; to be 
deep in secrets of state, and to have lived on terms 
of intimacy with several kings and queens. His ap- 
pearance was sufficiently striking to favour our dreams 
on his behalf. He had a tall, ungainly figure, made 
more ungainly by his odd, absent ways ; but withal he 
was an unmistakable gentleman. I have heard it said of 
him that he was a man from whom no errors in taste 
could be feared, and with whom no liberties could 
ever be taken. He had thick hair of that yellow over 
which age seems to have no power, and a rugged face, 
wonderfully lighted up by eyes of rare germander 


DOM. 


159 


blue. His hair sometimes seemed to me typical of 
his mind and tastes, which Time never robbed of 
their enthusiasm. 

“With age and knowledge the foolish fancies I 
wove about my father melted away, but the peculiar 
affection I felt for him, over and above my natural 
love as a daughter, only increased as I grew up. Our 
tastes were harmonious, and we always understood 
each other; whereas Fatima was apt to be awed by 
his stateliness, puzzled by his jokes, and at times pro- 
voked by his eccentricities. Then I was never very 
robust in my youth ; and the refined and considerate 
politeness which he made a point of displaying in his 
own family were peculiarly grateful to me. That 
good manners (like charity) should begin at home, 
was a pet principle with him, and one which he often 
insisted upon to us. 

“ ‘ If you will take my advice, young people,' he 
would say, ‘you will be careful never to let your 
sisters find other young gentlemen more ready and 
courteous, nor your brothers find other young ladies 
more gentle and obliging than those at home.' 

“My father certainly practised what he preached, 
and it would not have been easy to find a more kind 


i6o MRS, OVERTHEWAV^S REMEMBRANCES, 


and helpful travelling companion than the one with 
whom my mother and I set forth that early morning 
in search of our new abode. 

‘‘ I was just becoming too much tired to care to 
look any longer out of the window, when the coach 
rumbled over the pebbly street into the courtyard of 
the Saracen’s Head. 

had never stayed at an inn before. What a 
palace of delights it seemed to me 1 It is true that 
the meals were neither better nor better cooked than 
those at home, and that the little room devoted to my 
use was far from being as dainty as that which Fatima 
and I habitually shared ; but the keen zest of novelty 
pervaded everything, and the faded chintz and wavy 
looking-glass of No. 25 are pleasant memories still 
Moreover, it had one real advantage over my own 
bedroom. High up, at the back of the house, it 
looked out and down upon the river. How the 
water glittered and sparkled ! The sun was reflected 
from its ripples as if countless hosts of tiny naiads 
each held a mirror to catch his rays. My home had 
been inland, and at some distance from a river, and 
the sight of water was new and charming to me. I 
could see people strolling along the banks ; and then 


REKA DOM, 


i6i 


a boat carrying sails of a rich warm brown came into 
view and passed slowly under my eye, with a stately 
grace and a fair wind. I was watching her with keen 
interest, when I was summoned to dinner. 

‘‘ Here, again, novelty exercised its charm. At 
home I think I may say that the nursery party with- 
out exception regarded dinner in the light of a trouble- 
some necessity of existence. We were apt to grudge 
the length and formalities of the meal ; to want to go 
out, or not to want to come in; or possibly the 
dining-room had been in use as a kite manufactory, 
or a juvenile artist’s studio, or a doll’s dressmaker’s 
establishment, and we objected to make way for the 
roast meat and pudding. But on this occasion I 
took an interest in the dignities of the dinner-table, 
and examined the plates and dishes, and admired the 
old-fashioned forks and spoons, and puzzled over the 
entwined initials on their handles. 

“After dinner we went out into the town, and 
looked through several houses which were to let. My 
high hopes and eager interest in the matter were soon 
quenched by fatigue ; but, faithful to my promise, I 
examined each house in turn. None of them proved 
satisfactory to my parents, and they were even less so 


M 


i 62 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


to me. They were all new, all commonplace, and all 
equally destitute of swing-trees, interesting corners, 
deep window-seats, or superannuated boxes. Heat, 
fatigue, and disappointment at last so overpowered 
me that my pale face attracted notice, and my father 
brought me back to the inn. He carried me upstairs 
to the sofa, and pointing out a bookshelf for my 
amusement, and telling me to order tea if I wished 
for it, went back to my mother. 

“ It was a shabby little collection of volumes, that 
parlour library in the ‘Saracen^s Head.’ There was 
an old 'family Bible, a torn copy of Culpepper’s 
‘Herbal,’ the Homilies in inexpressibly greasy black 
calf, a book of songs, a volume called ‘Evelina,’ 
which seemed chiefly remarkable for dashes and notes 
of admiration, and — the book I chose. 

“ The book I chose would look very dull in your 
eyes, I dare say, my dear Ida ; you who live in an 
age of bright, smart story-books, with clear type, 
coloured pictures, and gorgeous outsides. You don’t 
know what small, mean, inartistic ‘ cuts ’ enlivened 
your grandmother’s nursery library, that is, when the 
books were illustrated at all. You have no idea how 
very little amusement was blended with the instruc- 


REKA DOM, 


163 

tion, and how much instruction with the amusement 
in our playbooks then, and how few there were of 
them, and how precious those few were ! You can 
hardly imagine what a treasure I seemed to have 
found in a volume which contained several engrav- 
ings the size of the page, besides many small wood- 
cuts scattered through the letter-press. I lost sight 
alike of fatigue and disappointment, as I pored over 
the pictures, and read bits here and there. 

“And such charming pictures there were! With 
quaint anglers in steeple-crowned hats, setting forth 
to fish, or breakfasting under a tree (untrammelled by 
the formalities of a nursery meal), or bringing their 
spoils to a wayside inn with a painted fish upon the 
signboard, and a hostess in a high hat and a stiflf- 
bustled dress at the door. Then there were small 
woodcuts which one might have framed for a dolfs 
house \ portraits of fish of all kinds, not easily distin- 
guishable by the unpractised eye ; and nicer woodcuts 
still of country scenes, and country towns, and almost 
all of these with a river in them. By the time that 
my father and mother returned, I had come to the 
conclusion that the bank of a river was, of all situa- 
tions, the most desirable for one's home, and had 


i 64 MI^S. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


built endless bowers in the air like that in which the 
anglers are seated in the picture entitled ‘The Fare- 
well;’ and had imagined myself in a tall hat and a 
stiff-bustled dress cooking fish for my favourite 
brothers after the receipts in Walton and Cotton’s 
* Complete Angler.’ 

“They came back with disappointment on their 
faces. They had not got a house, but my mother had 
got a headache, and we sat down to* tea a dispirited 
party. 

“It is sometimes fortunate as well as remarkable, 
how soon everybody knows everything about every- 
body else, especially in a small town. As the tea- 
things went downstairs, our landlord came up to help 
us in our difficulty. Had the gentleman succeeded in 
obtaining a house ? If none of the new lot suited him, 
the landlord believed that one or more of older date 
were to let near the river. It was not the fashion- 
able quarter, but there had been well-to-do people and 
some good substantial residences there. 

“ Our hopes rose again, and the idea of an old and 
substantial residence in an unfashionable quarter was 
so much more favourable to nursery interests than the 
smart ghncrack houses at which we had been looking, 


J^EITA DOM. 


165 


that I should have been anxious to explore that part 
of the town to which he directed us, even if it had not 
possessed a charm that was now pre-eminent in my 
eyes. It was near the river. 

My mother was too much tired to attempt further 
investigations, but I had completely recovered from 
my fatigues, and was allowed to go with my father on 
the new search. He and I were very good company, 
despite the difference in age between us. We were 
never in each other’s way, and whether we chatted 01 
did not speak, we were happy together, and enjoyed 
ourselves in our respective fashions. 

“ It was a lovely evening. Hand in hand we turned 
out of the ‘ Saracen’s Head ’ into the shingly street, 
took the turning which led to the unfashionable quarter, 
and strolled on and on, in what Scott calls ‘social 
silence.’ I was very happy. It was not only a lovely 
evening — it was one of those when the sunlight seems 
no longer mere sunlight, but has a kind of magical 
glow, as if a fairy spell had been cast over everything ; 
when all houses look interesting — ^11 country lanes 
inviting — when each hedge, or ditch, or field seems a 
place made to play in at some wonderful game that 
should go on for years. 


i66 MRS, OVERTIIEIVAY^S REMEMBRANCES 


we wandered on, we passed a line of small 
bright-looking houses, which strongly caught my fancy. 
Each had its gay little garden, its shrubbery of lilac, 
holly, or laurustinus, and its creeper-covered porch. 
They looked so compact and cosy, so easy to keep 
tidy, so snug and sunny, that one fancied the people 
who ‘lived in them must be happy, and wondered who 
they were. 

‘‘^Oh, father!’ I exclaimed, ‘what delightful houses!’ 

“ ‘ They are very pretty, my dear,’ he answered ; 
but they are much too small for us ; besides which, 
they are all occupied.’ 

“I sighed, and we were passing on, when I held 
him back with another exclamation. 

“ ‘Oh ! look at the carnations 1’ For in one of the 
gardens large clumps of splendid scarlet cloves caught 
my eye. 

“ My father humoured me, and we drew near to the 
laurustinus hedge, and looked over into the gay little 
garden. As we looked, we became conscious of what 
appeared like a heap or bundle of clothing near one of 
the beds, which, on lifting itself up, proved to be a 
tall slender lady of middle age, who, with her dress 
tucked neatly round her, a big print hood on her head, 


REKA DOM. 


167 


and a trowel in her hand, was busily administering 
such tender little attentions as mothers will lavish on 
their children, and garden lovers on their flowers. 
She was not alone in the garden, as we soon perceived. 
A shorter and stouter and younger lady sat knitting by 
the side of a gentleman in a garden-chair, who, from 
some defect in his sight, wore a large green shade, 
which hid the greater part of his face. The shade was 
made of covered pasteboard, and was large and round, 
and so very like a lamp shade, that I hardly ever look 
at one of those modern round globe lamps, my dear, 
if it has a green shade, without being reminded of old 
Mr. Brooke. 

‘ Was that his name ? * Ida asked. 

‘^‘Yes, my dear; but that we did not know till 
afterwards. When the good lady lifted herself up, she 
saw us, and seemed startled. My father raised his 
hat, and apologized politely. ‘My little girl was so 
much taken with your carnations, madam,’ he said, 
‘that we made bold to come near enough to look 
at them, not knowing that any one was in the 
garden.’ 

“She seemed rather flustered, but pushed back her 
hood, and made a stiff little curtsey in answer to my 


i68 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


father’s! bow, and murmured something about our being 
welcome. 

“‘Would you care to have some, my dear?’ she 
added, looking at me. I gave a delighted assent, 
and she had gathered two lovely carnations, when we 
heard a quavering voice from under the green shade 
inquire — 

“ ‘ What is it ? * 

“ Our friend was at the old gentleman’s side in a 
moment, speaking very distinctly into his ear, as if he 
were deaf, whereby we heard her answer, 

“‘It’s a gentleman and his little daughter, James, 
admiring our carnations, and I am gathering a few for 
the young lady, dear James.’ 

“ ‘ Quite right, quite right,’ he croaked. ‘ Anything 
that we have. Anything that we have.’ 

“It was a great satisfaction to me afterwards to 
remember that my father had thanked these good 
people ‘ properly,’ as I considered. As for myself, I 
had only been able to blush and stammer out some- 
thing that was far from expressing my delight with the 
lovely nosegay I received. Then the slender lady 
went back to her gardening. Her sister took up the 
knitting which she had laid down, the old gentleman 


/^£/irA DOM. 


169 


nodded his lamp-shade in the direction where he sup- 
posed us to be, and said, ‘ Good evening, sir, Good 
evening, miss and we went our way. 

“ The road wound on and on, and down and down, 
until we found ourselves on the edge of the river. A 
log lay conveniently on the bank, and there we seated 
ourselves. The tide was out, and the river bed was a 
bed of mud except for a narrow stream of water that 
ran down the middle. But ah ! how the mud glistened 
in the evening sunshine which was reflected on it in 
prismatic colours. Little figures were dotted here 
and there over its surface, and seawards the masts of 
some vessels loomed large through the shining haze. 

“ ‘ How beautiful everything looks this evening ! ^ I 
exclaimed. 

‘ I see them walking in an air of glory,^ murmured 
my father, dreamily. 

“ He was quoting from a favourite old poem, which 
begins — 

* They are all gone into a world of light, 

And I alone sit lingering here.* 

“This ‘air of glory,* indeed, was over everything. 
The mud and the tide pools, the dark human figures, 
the black and white seagulls that sat like onyx pebbles 


170 MRS, OVEKTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


on the river bed, the stream that spread seawards like 
a silver scroll, the swans that came sailing, sailing 
down the stream with just such a slow and stately 
pace as white- winged ships might have come down 
the river with the tide, to pass (as the swans did pass) 
into that ‘ world of light,’ that shining seaward haze, 
where your eye could not follow them unless shaded • 
by your hand. 

“ I do not quite know how long we sat gazing before 
us in silent enjoyment. Neither do I know what my 
father’s thoughts were, as he sat with his hands clasped 
on his knees and his blue eyes on the river. For my 
own part, I fancied myself established in one of the little 
houses as ‘hostess,’ with a signboard having a fish 
painted upon it hanging outside the door, and a bower 
of woodbine, sweetbriar, jessamine, and myrtle com- 
manding a view of the river. The day-dream was 
broken by my father’s voice. 

“ ‘ Mary, my dear, we must go about our business, 
or what will your mother say to us ? We must see 
after these houses. We can’t live on the river’s bank.’ 

“ ‘ I wish we could,’ I sighed ; and though he had 
lisen and turned away, I lingered still. At this 
moment my father exclaimed — 


REJ^A DOM. 


171 


‘ Bless my soul !’ and I jumped up and turned 
round. 

He was staring at a wall with a gateway in it, en- 
closing a house and garden on the other side of the 
road. On the two gateposts were printed in black 
Roman letters two words that I could not understand 
— Reka Dom. 

“‘What does it mean?' I asked. 

“ ‘ Reka Dom,' said my father, thoughtfully (and he 
pronounced it Rayka Rome). ‘ It is Russian. It 
means River House. Very curious ! I suppose the 
people who live here are Russians. It's a nice situa- 
tion — a lovely view — lovely /'*' and he had turned 
round to the river, but I caught his arm. 

“ ‘ Father, dear, no one lives here. Look V and 1 
pointed to a board beyond the gateway, which stated 
in plain English that the house was to let. 

“ By the time that we returned to my mother, Reka 
Dom was to all intents and purposes our home. 

“ It is true that the house was old, rambling, and 
out of repair, and that what we heard of the landlord 
was not encouraging. He was rich, we were told, but 
miserly; and ‘a very queer old gentleman,' whose 


172 MJ^S OVERTHEWATS REMEMBRANCES, 


oddness almost amounted to insanity. He had ‘ made 
himself so unpleasant ' to various people who had 
thought of taking the house, that they drew back, and 
Reka Dom had been untenanted for some time. The 
old woman who took care of it, and from whom we 
got this information, prophesied further that he would 
‘ do nothing to the old place. He’d let it fall about 
his ears first.’ 

It is also true that standing in the garden (which 
in its rambling, disorderly way was charming, and 
commanded a lovely view), my father rubbed his head 
ruefully, and said — 

‘‘ ‘ You know, Mary, your mother’s chief objection 
to our latest home was that the grounds were so much 
too large for our means of keeping them in order ; 
and this garden is the larger of the two, I fear.’ 

“And he did not seem to derive proportionate 
comfort from my reply. 

“ ‘ But, father dear, you know you needn’t keep it 
ir order, and then we can b'^ve it to play in.* 

“ And yet we took Reka Dom. 

“ The fact is that my father and I took a fancy to 
the place. On my side this is easily to be accounted 
or. If all the other houses at which we had looked 


I^EJirA DOM. 


173 


had proved the direct reverse of what I (on behalf of 
myself and my brothers and sisters) was in search of, 
Reka Dom in a remarkable degree answered our re- 
quirements. To explore the garden was like a tour 
in fairy land. It was oddly laid out. Three grass- 
plots or lawns, one behind another, were divided by 
hedges of honeysuckle and sweetbriar. The grass was 
long, the flower-borders were borders of desolation, 
where crimson peonies and some other hardy peren- 
nials made the best of it, but the odour of the honey- 
suckle was luxuriously sweet in the evening air. And 
. what a place for bowers ! The second lawn had 
greater things in store for me. There, between two 
tall elm trees, hung a swing. With a cry of delight I 
seated myself, seized the ropes, and gave a vigorous 
push. But the impetus was strong, and the ropes 
were rotten, and I and the swing came to the ground 
together. This did not deter me, however, from ex- 
ploring the third lawn, where I made a discovery to 
which that of the swing was as nothing. 

“ It was not merely that a small path through the 
shrubbery led me into a little enclosed piece of ground 
devoted to those many-shaped, box-edged little flower- 
beds characteristic of ‘ children's gardens,’ — it was 


174 OVERTIIEWATS REMEMBRANCES, 


not alone that the beds were shaped like letters, and 
that there was indisputably an M among them, — but 
they were six in number. Just one apiece for myself 
and my brothers and sisters ! And though families 
of six children are not so very uncommon as to make 
it improbable that my father^s predecessor should have 
had the same number of young ones as himself, the 
coincidence appeared to my mind almost supernatural. 
It really seemed as if some kind old fairy had conjured 
up the whole place for our benefit. And — bless the 
good godmother ! — to crown all, there were two old 
tea-chests and a bottomless barrel in the yard. 

Doubtless many causes influenced my father in 
his leaning towards Reka Dom, and he did not con- 
fide them to me. But I do truly believe that first 
and foremost of the attractions was its name. To a 
real hearty lover of languages there is a charm in the 
sight of a strange character, new words, a yet unknown 
tongue, which cannot be explained to those who do 
not share the taste. And perhaps next to the mystic 
attraction of words whose meaning is yet hidden, is 
to discover traces of a foreign language in some un- 
expected and unlikely place. Russian is not exten- 
sively cultivated ; my father’s knowledge of it was but 


DOM. 


m 


slight, and this quiet little water-side town an unlikely 
place for an inscription in that language. It was 
curious, and then interesting, and then the quaint 
simple title of the house took his fancy. Besides this, 
though he could not but allow that there was reason 
in my mother’s views on the subject of large grounds 
in combination with one man-of-all-work, he liked 
plenty of space and shrubbery where he could wander 
about — his hands behind his back — without being 
disturbed ; and for his own part he had undoubtedly 
felt more pleasure in the possession of large grounds 
than annoyance at seeing them neglected. So the 
garden tempted him. Finally, there was a room 
opening upon a laurel walk, which had at one time 
been a library. The shelves — old, common, dirty, 
and broken — were still there, and on the most secure 
of them the housekeeper kept her cheese and candles, 
and an old shawl and bonnet. 

“‘The place is made for us !’ I exclaimed on my 
return from discovering the old barrel and tea-chests. 
My father was standing in the library looking out 
upon the garden, and he did not say No. 

“ From the old woman we learnt something of the 
former tenants. She was a good-natured old soul, 


176 MRS, OVERTHEWATS REMEMBRANCES, 


with an aggrieved tone of voice, due probably to the 
depressing effects of keeping an empty house for a 
cantankerous landlord. The former tenant’s name 
was Smith, she said (unmistakably English this !). 
But his lady was a Roosian^ she believed. They had 
lived in Roosia, and some of the children, having been 
born there, were little Roostans, and had Roosian 
names. She could not speak herself, having no 
knowledge of the country, but she had heard that 
the Roosians were heathens, though Mr. Smith and 
his family went regularly to church. They had lived 
by a river, she believed, and their old home was called 
by the same outlandish name they had given to this. 
She had heard that it meant a house by the water- 
side, but could not say, knowing no language but her 
own, and having (she was thankful to say) found it 
sufficient for all purposes. She knew that before Mr. 
Smith’s time the house was called Montague Mount, 
and there was some sense in that name. Though 
what the sense was, she did not offer to explain. 

‘‘ ‘ Please, please take it ! ’ I whispered in a pause 
of the conversation ; ‘ there are six little gardens, 
and ’ 

“ My father broke in with mock horror on his face : 


/^jSATA DOM. 


177 


‘ Don’t speak of six gardens ! ’ he exclaimed. ‘ The 
one will condemn the place, I fear, but we must go 
home and consult your mother.’ 

I suppose we did consult her. 

‘‘ I know we described all the charms of the house 
and garden, and passed rather a poor examination as 
to their condition, and what might be expected of the 
landlord. That my father endeavoured to conceal his 
personal bias, and that I made no secret of mine. At 
last my mother interrupted some elaborately practical 
details by saying in her gentle voice — 

‘‘ ‘ I think choosing a home is something like choos- 
ing a companion for life. It is chiefly important to 
like it. There must be faults everywhere. Do you 
take to the place, my dear ? ’ 

‘ I like it certainly,’ said my father. ‘ But the 
question is not what I like, but wl^at you like.’ 

“ Then I knew it was settled, and breathed freely. 
For though my father always consulted my mother’s 
wishes, she generally contrived to choose what she 
knew he would prefer. And she chose Reka Dom. 

“Henceforward good luck seemed to follow oui 
new home. 


N 


178 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


“ First, as t<3 the landlord. The old woman had 
certainly not exaggerated his oddity. But one of his 
peculiarities was a most fortunate one for us,. He was 
a bibliomaniac — a lover and collector of valuable and 
curious books. When my father called on him to 
arrange about the house, he found him sitting almost 
in rags, apparently dining upon some cheese-parings, 
and surrounded by a library, the value of which would 
have fed and clothed him with comfort for an almost 
indefinite period. Upon the chair behind him sat a 
large black cat with yellow eyes. 

“ When my father was ushered in, he gazed for a 
moment in silent astonishment at the unexpected 
sight. Books in shelf after shelf up to the ceiling, and 
piled in heaps upon the floor. As he stood speechless, 
the little old man put down the plate, gathered his 
ragged dressing-gown about him, and, followed by the 
cat, scrambled across the floor and touched his arm. 

“‘You look at books as if you loved them?’ he 
said. 

“ My father sighed as if a spell had been broken. 

“‘lam nearly half a century old,’ he said, ‘ and I do 
not remember the day when I did not love them.’ 

“He confessed afterwards to my mother that not 


I^£AA DOM. 


179 


less than two hours elapsed before Reka Dom was so 
much as Spoken of. Then his new acquaintance was 
as anxious to secure him for a tenant as he had been 
to take the house. 

“ ‘ Put down on paper what you think wants doing, 
and it shall be done,’ was the old gentleman’s liberal 
order on the subject of repairs. ‘Lord! Lord!’ he 
went on, ‘ it’s one thing to have you, and another 
thing to put the house right for men who don’t know 
an Elzevir from an annual in red silk. One fellow 
came here who would have given me five pounds more 
than I wanted for the place ; but he put his vile hat 
upon my books. Lord ! Lord ! ’ 

“The old man’s strongest effort in my father’s 
favour, however, was the proposal of a glass of wine. 
He seemed to have screwed himself up to the offer, 
and to be proportionately relieved when it was 
declined. 

“ ‘ You’re quite right,’ he said, frankly ; ‘ my wine is 
not so good as my books. Come and see them when- 
ever you like.’ 

“ ‘The book-shelves shall be repaired, sir,’ was his 
final promise in answer to a hint from my father, who 
(it being successful, and he being a very straightforward 


i8o MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


man) was ever afterwards ashamed of this piece oi 
diplomacy. ,‘And the fire-place must be seen to. 
Lord ! Lord ! A man can live anywhere, but valuable 
books must be taken care of. Would you believe it ? 
I have a fire in this room three times a week in bad 
weather. And fuel is terribly dear, terribly dear. 
And that slut in the kitchen burns as much as if she 
had the care of the Vatican Library. She said she 
couldn’t roast the meat without. ‘ Then give me cold 
meat 1’ I said ; but she roasts and boils all the same. 
So last week I forbade the butcher the house, and 
weVe lived on cheese ever since, and thafs eightpence a 
pound. Food is terribly dear here, sir ; everything is 
dear. It’s enough to ruin a man. And you’ve got a 
family. Lord ! Lord ! How a man can keep a family 
and books together, I can’t imagine. However, I 
suppose children live chiefly on porridge.’ 

“ Which supposition served for long as a household 
joke against my brothers, whose appetite for roast 
meat was not less than that of other healthy boys of 
the period. 

It was a happy moment when my father came back 
from this interview, and Reka Dom was fairly ours. 
But a more delightful one was that in which I told the 


J^EJiTA DOM 


i8i 


successful result of my embassy to the nursery con- 
clave. I certainly had not the remotest claim to credit 
in the matter, but I received an ovation proportionate 
to the good news I brought. I told my story skilfully, 
and made the six gardens the crowning point; at 
which climax my brother and sisters raised a shout 
that so far exceeded the average of even nursery 
noises, that my mother hurried to the spot, where our 
little sister Phil flung herself into her arms, and almost 
sobbing with excitement, cried — 

“ ‘ Oh Mother dear ! we’re hooray ing for Reka 
Dom r 

‘‘ It was sagely prophesied by our nurse and others 
that we should soon be tired of our new fancy, and 
find ‘plenty to complain of’ in Reka Dom as else- 
where. (It is nursery wisdom to chasten juvenile en- 
thusiasm by such depressing truths.) And undoubtedly 
both people and places are apt to disappoint one’s ex- 
pectations on intimate acquaintance ; but there are 
people and places who keep love always, and such an 
one was Reka Dom. 

“ I hardly know what to tell you of it, Ida. The 
happy years we spent there were marked by no 


i 82 MRS, OVERTHEWAV^S REMEMBRANCES, 


wonderful occurrences, and were not enlivened by 
any particular gaiety. Beyond our own home our 
principal treat was to take tea in the snug little house 
where we made our first acquaintances. Those good 
ladies proved kind friends to us. Their buns were not 
to be surpassed, and they had pale albums, and faded 
treasures of the preceding generation, which it was our 
delight to overhaul. The two sisters lived with their 
invalid brother, and that was the household. Their 
names were Martha and Mary, and they cherished a 
touching bit of sentiment in reference to the similarity 
between their circumstances and those of the Family 
of Bethany. 

‘‘ ‘ I think it reminds us of what we ought to be, my 
dear,* Miss Mary said to me one day. * Only it is I 
who should have been called Martha, for Martha is 
far more spiritually minded.* Humility was the most 
prominent virtue in the character of these good ladies, 
and they carried it almost to excess. 

‘‘ I remember as a child thinking that even the holy 
sisters of Bethany could hardly have been more good 
than the Misses Brooke, but I was quite unable to con- 
nect any sentiment with the invalid brother. He 
spoke little and did less, and yet his sisters continually 


J^EJ^A DOM, 


183 


quoted his sayings and criticisms, and spoke of his 
fine taste and judgment ; but of all that he was sup- 
posed to say, only a few croaking commonplaces ever 
met our ears. 

‘ Dear James was so much pleased with that little 
translation you showed me,* or, ‘ Dear James hopes 
that his young friends keep up their practising. He 
considers music such a resource,* &c. cS:c. 

I believe they did hold conversations with him in 
which he probably assented to their propositions, and 
they persuaded themselves that he was very good 
company. And indeed he may have been all that 
they believed; I can only say that to me dear James*s 
remarks never exceeded, ‘ Good-day, Miss. How are 
your excellent parents ? * or some similar civility. I 
really was afraid of him. There is something appalling 
in a hoarse voice coming from under a green shade, 
and connected with eyes you cannot meet, and fea- 
tures that are always hidden. Beyond that shade we 
never saw to the day of his death. 

This occurred about four years after we first knew 
them. I well remember the visit of condolence on 
which I accompanied my mother, the bitter grief of 
the sisters, and the slow dropping of Miss Mary's 


i 84 MJ^S, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


tears on to her black dress. Wonderful indeed is 
love ! The most talented and charming companion in 
the world could not have filled to them the place 
of the helpless, uninteresting invalid who had passed 
away. 

‘‘ The Misses Brooke caused a commotion in the 
gossiping world of our little town by going to the 
funeral. It was not the custom for ladies to go to 
funerals, and, as a general rule, the timid sisters would 
not have ventured to act against public opinion ; but 
on this occasion they were resolute. To hear the 
voice of authority meet them with the very words 
wherewith Divine lips had comforted those other 
sisters, would comfort them, as nothing else could. 
I remember how from a window we watched the 
funeral with childish awe and curiosity — the thrill 
with which we heard a maid announce ‘the coffin,’ 
and caught sight of the flapping pall, and tried to 
realize that old Mr. Brooke was underneath. Then 
close behind it came the two figures we knew so well, 
veiled, black, and bent, and clinging together in the 
agony of that struggle between faith and loss which 
every loving soul is some time called on to endure. 
As we leant out of the open window, crying bitterly in 


REKA DOM. 


185 

sympathy with them, and with the gloomy excitement 
of the occasion, they raised themselves a little and 
walked more steadily. The rector’s clear voice was 
cutting the air with the pathos of an unusual sym- 
pathy. 

‘ I am the Resurrection and the Life — salth the Lord,’ 

‘‘ I understood then, and have never wondered 
since, how it was that the Misses Brooke braved the 
gossip of the neighbourhood, and followed their 
brother’s tody to the grave. 

‘‘ These good people were, as I have said, our chief 
friends ; but Reka Dom itself afforded us ample 
amusement. The six children who had lived there 
before us were a source of unfailing interest. The 
old woman of the house remained about the place foi 
a short time in the capacity of charwoman, and she 
suffered many inquiries on our part as to the names, 
ages, and peculiarities of our predecessors. As she 
had ‘ charred ’ for them, she was able to satisfy our 
curiosity to a considerable extent, and then great was 
die pleasure of retailing to our mother, as she sat 
knitting in the twilight, the anecdotes we had col 
lected of ‘ the Little Russians.’ 


/86 MRS. OVERTR£,ytrjir*S REMEMBRANCES. 


“ ‘ The Little Russians ’ certainly did much to 
cement our attachment to Reka Dom. Their history 
was the history of our home. It was the romance of 
the walks we played in, the swing we sat in, the gar- 
dens we tended every day. To play at being the 
Little Russians superseded all other games. To ‘pre- 
tend * that the Little Russians were with us, and to 
give dolls’ entertainments in their honour, supplanted 
all former fancies. Their gardens, by-the-by, were not 
allotted to their successors without some difficulty, and 
the final decision involved a disappointment to me. 
It seemed as if there could not be two opinions as to 
the propriety of my having the letter M. But on 
further consideration it appeared that as the remaining 
letters did not fit the names of my brothers and sis- 
ters, some other way of distributing them must be 
found. My mother at last decided that the letters of 
:he six beds were to be written on six separate bits oi 
paper, and put in a bag, and that one was to be drawn 
by each in turn. I still hoped that I might draw the 
letter M, but it was not to be. That large and sunny 
bed fell to my youngest brother, and I drew the letter 
I. Now not only was the bed little more than a 
fourth of the size of that which I had looked on as 


REKA DOM. 


187 


my own, but being very much in the shade, it was not 
favourable to flowers. Then the four divisions of the 
letter M afforded some scope for those effective 
arrangements which haunt one^s spring dreams for the 
coming summer; but what could be done with a 
narrow strip with two narrower ends where the box- 
edging almost met, and where nothing would blossom 
but lilies of the valley ? 

(“ Capricious things those lilies are ! So obdurate 
under coaxing when transplanted to some place they 
do not like, so immovably flourishing in a home that 
suits them !) 

“ What I did was to make the best of my fate. 
After trying to reduce the lilies of the valley to one 
neat group, and to cultivate gayer flowers in the rest 
of the bed, and after signally failing in both attempts, 
I begged a bit of spare ground in the big garden for 
my roses and carnations, and gave up my share of the 
Russian plat to the luxuriant lilies. 

‘‘ It had belonged to the eldest boy. One of those 
born in Russia, and with the outlandish names of 
which the charwoman spoke. His name was Ivan. 
Many a time did I wish it had been William or 
Matthew, and once, I remember, I dreamt a tanta- 


i88 Mi:s. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


lizing dream of discovering that it was Oliver, and of 
digging up the middle of the O, and effecting a round 
bed of unrivalled brilliancy, with a white rose for the 
centre-piece and crown. Once in the year, however, I 
had my revenge. In spring my lilies of the valley 
were the finest to be seen. We had a custom that all 
through the flower season a bouquet was laid by my 
mother’s plate before she came down to breakfast, and 
very proud we were when they came from our own 
gardens. There were no horticultural wonders in 
these nosegays, but in my short season of triumph, the 
size and fragrance of my flowers never failed to excite 
admiration ; an I many grown-up people besides my 
mother were grateful for bouquets from my narrow 
bed. Credit in the matter I deserved none, for Ivan’s 
lilies took care of themselves. 

Having learnt the names of the little Russians, we 
had no difficulty in discovering to which of them the 
respective letter beds had belonged ; and one of our 
amusements was that each should endeavour to carry 
out what (so far as we could learn) had been the habits 
and customs of the little Russian to whose garden he 
had succeeded. Then we had a whole class of par- 
isan games which gave us wonderful entertainment 


DOM 


189 


Sometimes we pretended to be Scottish chieftains, 01 
feudal barons of England, or chiefs of savage tribes. 
Our gardens were always the lands we had inherited 
or conquered, and we called ourselves by the names 
of the little Russians. When we were Highland 
chiefs, I remember, we put Mac indiscriminately before 
all the names ; in some cases with a comical, and in 
others with a very satisfactory effect. As chief of the 
Mad vans I felt justly proud of my title, but a brother 
who represented the MacElizabeths was less fortunate 
In the sham battles our pet animals (we each had 
one) did duty for retainers, much to their bewilder- 
ment. The dogs, indeed, would caper about, and 
bark round the opposing parties in a way that was 
at least inspiriting; but my Sandy Tom brandished 
his tail and took flying leaps upon no principle 
whatever, and as to Fatima’s tortoise, it never budged 
from the beginning of the conflict to the end. 
Once, indeed, by strewing dandelion heads in the 
direction of the enemy’s ground she induced him 
to advance, and at the cry of ‘Forward, MaePeters !* 
he put forth a lazy leg, and with elephantine dignity 
led the attack, on the way to his favourite food. 
But (in spite of the fable) his slow pace was against 


190 MRS. OVERTHEIVAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


him, and in the ensuing me/ee he was left far be- 
hind 

‘‘ I could not learn much about Ivan, but of what I 
did discover some things were easy enough for me to 
follow. He was fond of boating, a taste I was not 
allowed to cultivate ; but also he was fond of books, 
the old woman said, and fond of sitting in the swing 
and reading, and I heartily approved his choke in this 
respect. 

“ In helping to unpack my father’s library, I had 
discovered a copy of Walton and Cotton’s ‘ Angler,’ 
similar in every respect, but its good condition, to the 
one that had charmed me at the inn. Sometimes the 
precious volume was lent to me, and with it in my lap, 
and my arms round the ropes of the swing, I passed 
many a happy hour. What fancies I wove after study- 
ing those quaint, suggestive old prints ! As sweet as 
that ‘ contexture of woodbines, sweetbiiar, and myrtle ’ 
in which the anglers sat and sipped orange punch at 
Tottenham. The characters of Piscater, Venater^ and 
Auceps, and the style of their conversations by the 
wayside, I found by no means unlike those of the 
Pilgrim’s Progress. The life-like descriptions of nature 
(none the less attractive at my age from being quaintly 


I^EJC4 DOM, 


191 

mixed with fable and symbolism, and pointed with 
pious morals) went straight to my heart ; and though 
I skipped many of the fish chapters, I re-read many of 
the others, and ‘ The Complete Angler ’ did not a little 
to feed my strong natural love for out-door life and 
country pleasures, to confirm my habit of early rising, 
and to strengthen my attachment to the neighbourhood 
of a river. 

“ But my father^s library furnished another volume 
for my garden studies. From him I inherited some 
of that taste which finds a magic attraction in dic- 
tionaries and grammars ; and I only wish that I had 
properly mastered about half the languages in which 
it was the delight of my girlhood to dabble. As yet, 
however, I only looked at the ^ grammar corner ’ with 
ambitious eyes, till one day there came upon me the 
desire to learn Russian. I asked my father for a 
Russian grammar, and he pointed out the only one 
that he possessed. My father seldom refused to lend 
us his books, and made no inquiries as to why we 
wanted them ; but he was intensely strict about their 
proper treatment, so that we early learnt to turn over 
leaves from the top, to avoid dogs’ ears, and generally 
to treat bookj, properly and put them away punctually. 


192 MRS, OVERTIIEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


Thus I got the grammar, and carried it off to the 
swing. Alas ! it was not even Russian and English. 
It was a fat old French edition, interleaved for notes. 
The notes were my father’s, and in English, which was 
of some assistance, and I set myself resolutely to learn 
the alphabet. But my progress w^as slow, and at last 
I got my father to write Reka Dom for me in Russian 
character, as I had determined to master these few 
letters first and then proceed. I soon became familiar 
with them . and was not a little proud of the achievement. 
I made a large copy to fasten upon the nursery wall ; 
I wrote it in all my books; and Fatima, who could 
not be induced to attack the fat grammar with me, 
became equally absorbed on her part in the effort to 
reduce the inscription to cross-stitch for the benefit of 
her sampler. 

“ I borrowed the fat grammar again, and, in spite of 
my father’s warnings that it was too difficult for me as 
yet, I hoped soon to be proficient in the language of 
the little Russians. But warnings from one’s elders are 
apt to come true, and after a few vain efforts I left 
the tough old volume in its corner and took to easier 
pastimes. 

“ I had always an inventive turn, and was, as a rule. 


DOM. 


m 


the director-in-chief cf our amusements. I know I 
was often very tiresome and tyrannical in the en- 
suing arrangements, and can only hope the trouble 
I took on these occasions on behalf of my brothers 
and sisters, served in their eyes to balance my defects. 
I remember one device of mine that proved par- 
ticularly troublesome. 

‘‘When sham battles had ended in real quarrels, 
and following in the footsteps of the little Russians 
was becoming irksome — (especially to Fatima, whose 
predecessor — Peter — had been of a military turn, and 
had begun fortifications near the kitchen garden which 
she was incompetent to carry out) — a new idea struck 
me. I announced that letters properly written and 
addressed' to the little Russians, ‘Reka Dom, Russia,’ 
and posted in the old rhubarb-pot by the tool-house, 
would be duly answered. The replies to be found in 
a week^s time at the same office. 

“The announcement was received with delight and 
no doubt was ever expressed as to the genuineness of 
the answers which I regularly supplied, written, by-the- 
by, in excellent English, but with Reka Dom neatly 
effected in Russian characters on the note-paper. In 
the first place, I allowed no awkward inquiries into the 


194 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


machinery of my little plots for the benefit of the rest; 
and in the second, we had all, I think, a sort of half- 
and-half belief, a wilful credulity in reference to our 
many fancies (such as fairies and the like), of which it 
is impossible to give the exact measure. But when, 
the six weekly letters having become rather burden- 
some, I left off writing answers from Ivan to myself, 
the others began to inquire why Ivan never wrote now. 
As usual, I refused to give any explanations, and after 
inventing several for themselves which answered for a 
while, they adopted by general consent an idea put 
forth by little Phillis. The child was sitting one day 
with her fat cheek on her hand, and her eyes on the 
rhubarb-pot, waiting for her share of the correspondence 
to be read aloud to her, when the fancy seemed to 
strike her, and she said quietly, but with an air of full 
conviction — 

‘ I know what it is — Ivan is deadi 
“The idea took strange hold of us all. We said, 
‘ Perhaps he is dead,* and spoke and thought of him 
as dead, till I think we were fully persuaded of it. No 
chair was set for him at the dolls’ feasts, and I gained 
a sort of melancholy distinction as being without a 
partner now. ‘You know Mary has no little Russian, 
since Ivan is dead.’ 




THE STONE AMONGST THE LILIES 


Page 195. 




DOM, 


195 


‘‘ When our visible pets died, we buried them with 
much pomp, to the sound of a drum and a tin trumpet, 
in a piece of ground by the cabbage-bed; but in the 
present instance that ceremony was impossible. We 
resolved, however, to erect a gravestone to the memory 
of our fancy friend in his own garden. I had seen 
letters cut on stone, and was confident that with a 
chisel and hammer nothing could be easier. These 
the nursery tool-box furnished. I wrote out an ela- 
borate inscription headed by Reka Dom in Russian 
characters, and we got a stone and set to work. The 
task, however, was harder than we had supposed. My 
long composition was discarded, and we resolved to be 
content with this simple sentence. To the memory of 
Ivan, But ‘brevity is the soul of wit,’ and the TO 
took so long to cut, that we threw out three more 
words, and the epitaph finally stood thus : 

TO IVAN. 

“In a rude fashion this was accomplished; and 
with crape on our arms and the accustomed music we 
set up the stone among the lilies. 


“ In time, Ida, we grew up, as it is called. Almost 


196 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


before we knew it, and whilst we still seemed to be 
looking forward to our emancipation from nursery 
authority and childish frocks, Fatima and I found 
ourselves grown-up young ladies, free to fashion our 
costume to our own tastes, and far from Reka Dom. 
Yes, we had changed our home again. The River 
House was ours no longer. Childhood also had slipped 
from our grasp, but slowly as the years had seemed to 
pass, they had not sufficed to accomplish every project 
we had made in them. Not one of those long sum- 
mers by the river had seen that gorgeous display of 
flowers in our garden which in all good faith and 
energy we planned with every spring. I had not learnt 
Russian. Years had gone by since I first took up the 
fat grammar, but I had acquired little since that time 
beyond the familiar characters of the well-beloved 
name, Reka Dom. 

‘‘ The country town that circumstances had now 
made our home possessed at least one attraction for 
us. It was here that our old friends the Misses 
Brooke had settled when their brother’s death broke 
up the quiet little household. I was very fond of the 
good ladies ; not less so now man 1 had been as a 
child, when their home-made buns and faded albums 


REKA DOM, 


197 


made an evening festive, and were looked forward to 
as a treat. They were good women, severe to them- 
selves and charitable to others, who cultivated the 
grace of humility almost in excess. One little weak- 
ness, however, in their otherwise estimable characters 
had at times disturbed the even course of our friend- 
ship. I hardly know what to call it. It was not want 
of candour. More truthful women do not exist than 
they were, and I believe they never wilfully deceived 
any one. I can only describe it as a habit of indulg- 
ing in small plots and suspicions ; a want of trust in 
other people, partly traceable, perhaps, to a lack of 
due confidence in themselves, but which was very 
provoking to one as young, eager, and sincerely affec- 
tionate as I was. I was indignant to discover little 
plots laid to test my sincerity ; and to find my genuine 
(if not minutely measured), expressions of feeling 
doubted. If this peculiarity had been troublesome in 
the early stages of our acquaintance, it was doubly so 
when we met again, after the lapse of some years. 
For one thing, the dear ladies were older, and fidgety, 
foolish little weaknesses of this kind sometimes in 
crease with years. Then I was older also, and if they 
had doubted their own powers of entertainment when 


198 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


I was a child, they would still less believe that I coidd 
enjoy their society now that I was a ‘young ladyd 
Whereas the truth was, that though my taste for buns 
and my reverence for smooth pencil drawings in im- 
possible perspective had certainly diminished, my real 
enjoyment of* a quiet evening with my old friends was 

greater than before. I liked to take my sewing to 

« 

their undisturbed fireside, and not a few pieces of 
work which had flagged under constant interruptions 
at home were rapidly finished as I chatted with them. 
I liked to draw out the acquirements which they 
would not believe that they possessed. I enjoyed 
rubbing my modern and desultory reading against 
their old-fashioned but solid knowledge. I admired 
their high and delicate principles, and respected their 
almost fatiguing modesty. At an age when religious 
questions move and often seriously trouble girls’ 
minds, I drew comfort from their piety, which (al- 
though as quiet and modest as all their other virtues) 
had been for years, under my eyes, the ruling prin- 
ciple of all they did, the only subject on which they 
had the courage to speak with decision, the crown 
of their affections and pleasures, and the sufficient 
consolatioK of their sorrow. In addition to all 


REKA DOM. 


199 


this, when I went to them, I knew that my visit gave 
pleasure. 

It seemed hard that they could not always repose 
a similar confidence in me. And yet so it was. The 
consistent affection of years had failed to convince 
them that ‘a young, pretty, lively ghr (as they were 
pleased to call me) could find pleasure in the society 
of ‘ two dull old women.’ So they were apt to sus- 
pect either a second motive for my visit, or affectation 
in my appearance of enjoyment. At times I was 
chafed almost beyond my powers of endurance by 
these fancies ; and on one occasion my vexation 
broke all bounds of respect. 

‘‘‘You think me uncandid, ma’am,’ I cried; ‘and 
what are you ? If you were to hear that I had spoken 
of you, elsewhere, as two dull old women, you would 
be as much astonished as angered. You know you 
would. You know you don’t think I think so. I 
can’t imagine why you say it !’ 

“ And my feelings being as much in the way of 
my logic as those of most other women, I got no 
further, but broke down into tears. 

“ ‘ She says we’re uncandid, Mary,’ sobbed Miss 
Martha. 


200 M/^S, OVERT HEWAV^S REMEMBRANCES. 


“ ‘ So we are, I believe,’ said Miss Mary, and then 
we all cried together. 

‘‘ I think the protracted worry of this misunder- 
standing (which had been a long one) had made me 
almost hysterical. I clearly remember the feeling of 
lying with my face against the horsehair sofa in the 
little dining-room, feebly repeating, ‘ You shouldn’t, 
you know. You shouldn’t!’ amid my tears, my hair 
being softly stroked the while by the two sisters, who 
comforted me, and blamed themselves with a depth 
of self-abasement that almost made me laugh. It 
had hardly seemed possible that their customary 
humility could go lower. The affair was wound up 
with a good deal of kissing, and tea, and there were 
no more suspicions for a long time. 

“ There had been peace, as I said, for long. But 
as, at the best of times, the Misses Brooke never gave 
us an invitation without going through the form of 
apologizing for the probable dulness of the entertain- 
ment, I was not surprised one morning to find myselt 
invited to tea at Belle Vue Cottage for the following 
evening, on the strict condition that I should refuse 
the invitation if I felt disinclined to go. I had met 


DOM, 


201 


the good ladies as we came out of church. There was 
Morning Prayer on Wednesdays and Fridays at one 
church in the town, and if the two little straw bonnets 
of the Misses Brooke had not been seen bending side 
by side at every service, the rest of the scanty congrega- 
tion would have been as much astonished as if every 
one in the town who had time and opportunity for 
public worship had availed themselves of the privilege. 
On this day they had been there as usual, and when we 
turned up the street together, the invitation was given. 

‘‘ ‘ And could you induce your respected father to 
come with you, Mary dear ? ^ added Miss Mary. ‘ You 
know our rooms are small, or we should be so glad to 
see Fatima. But we have a few friends coming, and 
she will understand.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Only a few,’ Miss Martha said, hastily. ‘ Don’t 
make her think there’s anything worth coming for, 
Mary. And mind, Mary dear, if you don’t care to 
come, that you say so. There’s no need for ‘^ex- 
cuses ” with us. And you know exactly what our tea 
parties are.’ 

“ ‘ Now, Miss Martha,’ I said, shaking my fist at 
her, ‘ I won’t bear it!’ 

“ ‘ Well, my dear, you know it’s true. And if you 


202 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


should have an invitation to the Lodge between 
now and to-morrow night, mind you throw us over. 
There’s no dancing and heavy supper at the cottage/ 

‘‘ ‘ I’ll eat a pound of beefsteak and have a private 
nornpipe to fortify me before I come, ma’am. And 
if the Lightfoots should ask me between now and 
then, ril think about throwing over my oldest friends 
to oblige you ! ’ 

“‘You’re very clever, my dear,’ sighed Miss 
Martha, ‘ and it’s easy to laugh at a stupid old woman 
like me.’ 

“ Now this was rather unfair, for I had only taken 
to banter on these occasions because a serious treat- 
ment of the subject had failed. I made my peace, 
however, by grave and affectionate assurances that I 
wished to come, and would like to come; and by 
adding a solemn promise that if I felt averse from it 
when the time came, I would stay at home. 

“ I was vexed to find symptoms of the old misunder- 
standing arising. The good ladies were evidently in a 
fidgety humour to-day; and going home full of it, I 
poured out my vexation to Fatima. 

“Fatima’s composure was not so easily ruffled as 
mine. She was apt to sit in easy, graceful attitudes, 


REKA DOM, 


203 


looking very idle, but getting through a wonderful 
amount of exquisite needlework, and listening to my 
passing grievances without being much disturbed her- 
self. 

^ I don’t think I would worry myself,’ she said, as 
she rapidly sorted the greens for a leaf in her em- 
broidery. ‘My idea is, that you will find the party 
more lively than usual. I have often noticed that 
when the old ladies are particularly full of apologies, 
something or somebody is expected.’ 

“ ‘ I didn’t want anything or anybody,’ I said, dole- 
fully; ‘but I wish they wouldn’t take fancies, and I 
wish they wouldn’t put one through such cross-exami- 
nations about nothing. As to the party, who could 
there be, but the old set ? ’ 

“ ‘ Nobody, I suppose. There’ll be the Wilkinsons, 
of course ; ’ and Fatima marked the fact with an em- 
phatic stitch. ‘And Mr. Ward, I suppose, and Dr. 

Brown, and the Jones’s girls, and ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, the rooms wouldn’t hold more 1* I said. 

“ ‘ There’s always room for one more — for a gen- 
tleman at any rate; and depend upon it, it is as I 
say.’ 

“ Fatima was not so fond of the Misses Brooke as I 


204 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


was. She did not scruple to complain of the trouble 
it cost to maintain intimate relations with the excellent 
but touchy old ladies, and of the hot water about 
trifles into which one must perpetually fall. 

‘ I hope I am pretty trustworthy,’ she would say, 
‘ and I am sure you are, Mary. And if we are not, let 
them drop our acquaintance. But they treat their 
friends as we used to treat our flowers at Reka Dom 1 
They are always taking them up to see how they are 
going on, and I like to vegetate in peace.* 

‘‘ I could not have criticized my dear and respected 
old friends so freely; but yet I knew that Fatima 
only spoke the truth. 

“ The subject was unexpectedly renewed at dinner. 
‘‘ ‘ Mary,* said my father, ‘ is there any mystery con- 
nected with this tea-party at Miss Brooke’s ? ’ 

‘ Fatima gave me a mischievous glance. 

‘ If there is, sir,’ said I, ‘ I am not in the secret.* 

‘ I met them in the town,’ he went on, ‘ and they 
were good enough to invite me; and as I must see 
Ward about some registers, I ventured to ask if he 
were to be of the party (thinking to save my old legs 
a walk to his place). The matter was simple enough, 
but Miss Martha seemed to fancy that I wanted to 


REKA DOM, 


205 


know who was going to be there. I fully explained 
my real object, but either she did not hear or she did 
not believe me, I suppose, for she gave me a list of 
the expected company.^ 

‘‘‘lam sure she would have believed you, sir, if she 
had realized what you were saying,’ I said. ‘ I know 
the sort of thing, but I think that they are generally 
so absorbed in their own efforts to do what they think 
you want, they have no spare attention for what you* 
say.’ 

“ ‘ A very ingenious bit of special pleading, my dear, 
but you have not heard all. I had made my best bow 
and was just turning away, when Miss Martha, begging 
me to excuse her, asked with a good deal of mystery 
and agitation if you had commissioned me to find out 
who was to be at the party. I said I had not seen you 
since breakfast, but that I was quite able to assure 
her that if you had wished to find out anything on the 
subject, you would have gone direct to herself, with 
which I repeated my best bow in my best style, and 
escaped.’ 

“ I was too much hurt to speak, and Fatima took up 
the conversation with my father. 

“ ‘ You will go, sir ? ’ she said. 


2o6 MRS. OVERTHEWAV^S REMEMBRANCES. 


^ Of course, my dear, if Mary wishes it. Besides, 
Ward ts to be there. I learnt so much.’ 

‘“You learnt more, sir,’ said Fatima, ‘and please 
don’t leave us to die of curiosity. Who is to be there, 
after all ? ’ 

“‘The Wilkinsons, and Miss Jones and her sister, 
and Ward, and an old friend of Miss Brooke’s, a mer- 
chant’ 

“ ‘ But his name, please 1 ’ cried Fatima, for my father 
was retreating to his study. 

“‘Smith — John Smith,’ he answered laughing, and 
we were left alone. 

“I was very much disposed to be injured and gloomy, 
but Fatima would not allow it. She was a very success- 
ful comforter. In the first place, she was thoroughly 
sympathetic ; and in the second, she had a great dislike 
to any disturbance of the general peace and harmony, 
and at last, her own easy, cheerful view of things 
became infectious where no very serious troubles were 
concerned. 

‘“People must have their little weaknesses,’ she 
said, ‘ and I am sure they haven’t many failings.’ 

“ ‘ This weakness is so unworthy of them,’ I com- 
plained. 


I^EKA DOM, 


207 


‘All good people^s weaknesses are unworthy of them, 
my dear. And the better they are, the more unworthy 
the weakness appears. Now, Mary, do be reasonable ! 
You know at the bottom how true they are, and how 
fond of you. Pray allow them a few fidgety fancies, 
poor old dears. No doubt we shall be just as fidgety 
when we are as old. I’m sure I shall have as many 
fancies as hairs in my wig, and as to you, considering 
how little things weigh on your mind now ’ 

“Fatima’s reasoning was not conclusive, but I think 
I came at last to believe that Miss Brooke’s distrust 
was creditable to herself, and complimentary to me — 
so it certainly must have been convincing. 

“‘And now,’ she concluded, ‘come upstairs and 
forget it. For I have got two new ideas on which I 
want your opinion. The first is a new stitch, in which 
I purpose to work some muslin dresses for us both. 
I thought of it in bed this morning. The second is a 
new plan for braiding ygur hair, which came into my 
head whilst father was reading aloud that speech to us 
last night. I had just fastened up the last plait when 
he laid down the paper.’ 

“ ‘ You absurd Fatima ! ’ I cried. ‘ How could you \ 
And it was so interesting ! ’ 


j 2 o 8 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


‘ Don’t look shocked/ said Fatima. ‘ I shall never 
be a politician. Of all studies, that of politics seems 
to me the most disturbing and uncomfortable. If some 
angel, or inspired person would tell me which side 
was in the right, and whom to believe in, I could be a 
capital partisan. As it is, I don’t worry myself with 
it; and last night when you were looking flushed 
and excited at the end of the speech, I was calmly 
happy ’ 

“ ‘ But, Fatima,’ I broke in, ‘ you don’t mean to 
say ’ 

“ ‘ If it had lasted five minutes longer,’ said Fatima, 
* I should have comfortably decided whether ferns or 
ivy would combine better with the loops.’ 

‘ But Fatima 1 were you really not listening 
when ’ 

“ ‘ On the whole I decide for ivy,’ said Fatima, and 
danced out of the room, I following and attempting 
one more remonstrance in the hall. 

‘‘ ‘ But Fatima ! ’ 

“ ‘ With perhaps a suspicion of white chrysanthe- 
mums,’ she added over the banisters. 

Both the new ideas promised to be successful, 
and the following evening my hair was dressed in 


REKA DOM. 


209 


what Fatima now called the political plaits. From 
the first evening of my introduction into society she 
had established herself as my lady’s maid. She took 
a generous delight in dressing me up, and was as 
clever as she was kind about it. This evening she 
seemed to have surpassed herself, as I judged by the 
admiring exclamations of our younger sister Phillis — 
a good little maid, who stood behind my chair with 
combs and pins in her hand as Fatima’s aide-de-camp. 
Finally, the dexterous fingers interwove some sprays 
of ivy with the hair, and added white rosebuds for 
lack of chrysanthemums. 

‘‘‘Perfect!’ Fatima exclaimed, stepping backwards 
with gestures of admiration that were provokingly 
visible in the glass before which I sat. ‘ And to think 
that it should be wasted on an uninteresting tea-party ! 
You will not wear your new muslin, of course?’ 

“ ‘ Indeed I shall,’ I answered. ‘ You know I al- 
ways make myself smart for the cottage.’ Which was 
true, and my reason for it was this. I had once gone 
there to a quiet tea-party in a dress that was rather 
too smart for the occasion, and which looked doubly 
gay by contrast with the sombre costume of the elderly 
friends whom I met. I was feeling vexed with myself 

p 


210 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES, 


for an e^ror in taste, when Miss Mary came up to me, 
and laying her hands affectionately on me, and smooth- 
ing my ribbons, thanked me for having come in such 
a pretty costume. 

‘‘‘You come in, my dear,’ she said, ‘like a fresh 
nosegay after winter. You see we are old women, my 
love, and dress mostly in black, since dear. James’s 
death ; and our friends are chiefly elderly and sombre- 
looking also. So it is a great treat to us to look at 
something young and pretty, and remember when we 
were girls, and took pains with such things ourselves.’ 

“‘I was afraid I was too smirt, Miss Mary,’ I said. 

“‘To be sure it is a waste to wear your pretty 
things here,’ Miss Mary added; ‘but you might let 
us know sometimes when you are going to a grand 
party, and we will come and look at you.’ 

“ I was touched by the humble little lady’s speech, 
and by the thought of how little one is apt to realize 
the fact that faded, fretful, trouble-worn people in 
middle life have been young, and remember their 
youth. 

“Thenceforward I made careful toilettes for the 
cottage, and this night was not an exception to the 
rule. 


REKA DOM. 


211 


“I was dressed early; my father was rather late, 
and we three girls had nearly an hour’s chat before I 
had to go. 

‘‘We began to discuss the merchant who was to 
vary the monotony of our small social circle. Phillis 
had heard that a strange gentleman had arrived in 
the town this afternoon by the London stage. Fatima 
had an idea on the subject which she boldly stated. 
One of the Misses Brooke was going to be married — 
to this London merchant. We were just at an age 
when a real life romance is very attractive, and the 
town was not rich in romances — at least in our little 
society. So Fatima’s idea found great favour with us, 
and, as she described it, seemed really probable. 
Here was an old friend, a friend of their youth, and 
probably a lover, turned up again, and the sisters were 
in a natural state of agitation. (It fully accounted for 
Miss Martha’s suspicious sensitiveness yesterday, and 
I felt ashamed of having been aggrieved.) Doubtless 
the lovers had not been allowed to marry in early life 
because he was poor. They had been parted, but 
had remained faithful. He had made a fortune, like 
Dick Whittington, and now, a rich London merchant, 
had come back to take his old love home. Being an 


212 MRS. OVERTHE WAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


old friend, it was obviously a youthful attachment; 
and being a merchant, he must be very rich. This 
happy combination — universal in fiction, though not 
invariable in real life — was all that could be desired, 
and received strong confirmation from the fact of his 
coming from London ; for in those days country girls 
seldom visited the metropolis, and we regarded the 
great city with awe, as the centre of all that was 
wealthy and wonderful. It was a charming story, and 
though we could not but wish that he had returned 
before Miss Martha took to a ‘ front ^ and spectacles, 
yet we pictured a comfortable domestic future for 
them ; and Fatima was positive that ‘ worlds ’ might 
be done for the appearance of the future Mrs. Smith 
by more tasteful costume, and longed ardently to 
assume the direction of her toilette. 

“ ‘ I don’t believe that she need wear a front,’ she 
pleaded. ‘I dare say she has plenty of pretty grey 
hair underneath. Spectacles are intellectual, if pro- 
perly worn : which, by-the-by, they need not be at 
meals when your husband is looking at you across the 
table ; and as to caps ’ 

‘‘ But here my father knocked at the door, and I 
put on my cloak and hood, and went with him. 



0 



THE LONDON MERCHANT, 


Page 213. 




REI^A DOM. 


213 


‘‘ The Misses Brooke received us affectionately, but 
I thought with some excitement, and a flush on Miss 
Martha^s cheeks almost made me smile. I could not 
keep Fatima’s x^ncy out of my head. Indeed, I was 
picturing my old friend in more cheerful and matronly 
costume presiding over the elegant belongings of a 
stout, well-to-do, comfortable Mr. John Smith, as I 
moved about in the little room, and exchanged me- 
chanical smiles and greetings with the familiar guests. 
I had settled the sober couple by their fireside, and 
was hesitating between dove-colour and lavender-grey 
for the wedding silk, when Miss Martha herself dis- 
turbed me before I had decided the important question. 
I fancied a slight tremor in her voice as she said — 

‘‘ ‘ Mr. John Smith.’ 

‘‘ I dropped a more formal curtsey than I had hitherto 
done, as was due to a stranger and a gentleman, and 
looked once at the object of my benevolent fancies, 
and then down again at my mittens. His head was 
just coming up from a low bow, and my instantaneous 
impression was, ‘He wears a brown wig.’ But in a 
moment more he was upright, and I saw that he did 

not And he certainly was not suitable in point 

of age. I took one more glance to make sure, and 


214 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCER^. 

meeting his eyes, turned hastily, and plunged into 
conversation with my nearest neighbour, not noticing 
at the instant who it was. As I recovered from my 
momentary confusion, I became aware that I was 
talking to the rector's wife, and had advanced some 
opinions on the subject of the weather which she was 
energetically disputing. I yielded gracefully, and went 
back to my thoughts. I hope Miss Martha did not 
feel as I did the loss of that suitable, comfortable, 
middle-aged partner my fancy had provided for her. 
It did seem a pity that he had no existence. I thought 
that probably marriage was the happiest condition for 
most people, and felt inclined to discuss the question 
with the rector’s wife, who had had about twenty-two 
years’ exemplary experience of that state. Then I 
should like to have helped to choose the silk— 

At this point I was asked to play. 

‘‘1 played some favourite things of Miss Brooke’s 
and some of my own, Mr. Smith turning over the 
leaves of my music ; and then he was asked to sing, 
and to my astonishment, prepared to accompany him- 
self. Few English gentlemen (if any) could accompany 
their own songs on the pianoforte in my youth, Ida ; 
most of them then had a wise idea that the pianoforte 


DOM. 


215 


was an instrument ‘only fit for women/ and would 
have as soon thought of trying to learn to play upon 
it as of studying the spinning-wheel. I do not know 
that I had ever heard one play except my father, who 
had lived much abroad. When Mr. Smith sat down 
at the instrument, I withdrew into a corner, where 
Miss Martha followed me as if to talk. But when he 
began, I think every one was silent. 

“ The song he sang is an old one now, Ida, but it was 
comparatively new then, and it so happened that very 
few of us had heard it before. It was ‘ Home, Sweet 
Home/ He had a charming voice, with a sweet pathetic 
ring about it, and his singing would have redeemed a 
song of far smaller merit, and of sentiment less com- 
mon to all his hearers. As it was, our sympathies were 
taken by storm. The recto/s wife sobbed audibly, but, 
I believe, happily, with an oblique reference to the ten 
children she had left at home j and poor Miss Martha, 
behind me, touched away tear after tear with her thin 
finger-tips, and finally took to her pocket-handkerchief, 
and thoughts of the dear dead brother, and the little 
house and garden, and I know not what earlier home 
still. As for me, I thought of Reka Dom. 

We had had many homes, but that was the home 


2i6 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


par excellence — the beloved of my father, the beloved 
of us all. And as the clear voice sang the refrain, 
which sounded in some of our ears like a tender cry of 
recall to past happiness, 

* Home — Home — sweet, sweet Home J * 

I stroked Miss Martha^s knee in silent sympathy, and 
saw Reka Dom before my eyes. The river seemed to 
flow with the melody. I swung to the tune between 
the elm-trees, with Walton and Cotton on my lap. 
What would Piscator have thought of it, had the milk- 
maid sung him this song ? I roamed through the three 
lawns that were better to me than pleasures and 
palaces, and stood among the box-edged gardens. 
Then the refrain called me back again — 

‘ Home — Home — sweet, sweet Home ! * 

I was almost glad that it ended before I, too, quite 
broke down. 

‘‘Everybody crowded round the singer with ad- 
miration of the song, and inquiries about it. 

“ ‘ I heard it at a concert in town the other day,’ he 
said, ‘ and it struck me as pretty, so I got a copy. It 
is from an English opera called “Clari,” and seems 
the only pretty thing in it.’ 


DOM, 


2i; 

“‘Do you not like it?’ Miss Jones asked me; I 
suppose because I had not spoken. 

“ ‘ I think it is lovely/ I said, ‘ as far as I can judge; 
but it carries one away from criticism ; I do not think 
I was thinking of the music ; I was thinking of Home. 

“ ‘ Exactly.’ 

“It was not Miss Jones who said ‘Exactly/ but the 
merchant, who was standing by her; and he said it, 
not in that indefinite tone of polite assent with which 
people commonly smile answers to each other’s re- 
marks at evening parties, but as if he understood the 
words from having thought the thought. We three 
fell into conversation about the song — about ‘Clari’ 
— about the opera — the theatre — about London ; and 
then Dr. Brown, who had been educated in the great 
city, joined us, and finally he and Miss Jones took the 
London subject to themselves, and the merchant con- 
tinued to talk to me. He was very pleasant com- 
pany, chiefly from being so alive with intelligence that 
it was much less trouble to talk with him than with 
any one I had ever met, except my father. He re- 
quired so much less than the average amount of expla- 
nation. It hardly seemed possible to use too few 
words for him to seize your meaning by both ends, so 


2i8 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


to speak; the root your idea sprang from, and the 
conclusion to which it tended. 

“We talked of music — of singing — of the new song, 
and of the subject of it — home. And so of home-love, 
and patriotism, and the characters of nations in which 
the feeling seemed to predominate. 

“*Like everything else, it depends partly on cir- 
cumstances, I suppose,^ he said. ‘I sometimes envy 
people who have only one home — the eldest son of a 
landed proprietor, for instance. I fancy I have as 
much home-love in me as most people, but it has been 
divided ; I have had more homes than one.* 

“‘/have had more homes than one,* I said; ‘but 
with me I do not think it has been divided. At least, 
one of the homes has been so much dearer than the 
others.* 

“ ‘ Do you not think so because it is the latest, and 
your feelings about it are freshest ? * he asked. 

“ I laughed. ‘ A bad guess. It is not my present 
home. This one was near a river.* 

“ ‘ Exactly.* 

“This time the ‘exactly* did not seem so appro- 
priate as before, and I explained further. 

“ ‘ For one thing we were there when I was at an 


J^EA'A DOM. 


219 


age when attachment to a place gets most deeply 
rooted, I think. As a mere child one enjoys and 
suffers like a kitten from hour to hour. But when one 
is just old enough to form associations and weave 
dreams, and yet is still a child — it is then, I fancy, 
that a home gets almost bound up with one’s life.’ 

He simply said ‘Yes,’ and I went on. Why, I can 
hardly tell, except that to talk on any subject beyond 
mere current chit-chat, and be understood, was a 
luxury we did not often taste at the tea-parties of the 
town. 

“ ‘ And yet I don’t know if my theory will hold good, 
even in our case,’ I went on, ‘ for my father was quite 
as much devoted to the place as we were, and fell in 
love with it quite as early. But the foreign name was 
the first attraction to him, I think.’ 

“ ‘ It was abroad, then ? ’ he asked. 

“ I explained, and again I can hardly tell why, but 
I went on talking till I had given him nearly as full a 
history of Reka Dom as I have given to you. For 
one thing he seemed amazingly interested in the re- 
cital, and drew out many particulars by questions; 
and then the song had filled my head with tender 
memories, and happy little details of old times, and it 


220 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


was always pleasant to prose about the River Home, 
as indeed, my child, it is pleasant still. 

‘‘We were laughing over some childish reminiscence, 
when Miss Martha tapped me on the shoulder, and 
said rather louder than usual — 

“ ‘ Dear Mary, there are some engravings here, my 
love, I should like you to look at.’ 

“I felt rather astonished, for I knew every book 
and picture in the house as well as I knew my own, 
but I followed her to a table, when she added in a 
fluttering whisper — 

“‘You’ll excuse my interrupting you, my love, I’m 
sure ; but it was becoming quite particular.’ 

“ I blushed redder than the crimson silk binding of 
the ‘ Keepsake ’ before me. I wished I could honestly 
have misunderstood Miss Martha’s meaning. But I 
could not. Had I indeed talked too much and too 
long to a gentleman and a stranger ? (It startled me 
to reflect how rapidly we had passed that stage of civil 
commonplace which was the normal condition of my 
intercourse with the gentlemen of the town.) I was 
certainly innocent of any intentional transgression of 
those bounds of reticence and decorum which are a 
young lady’s best friends, but as to the length of my 


DOM, 


221 


conversation with the merchant I felt quite uncertain 
and unspeakably alarmed. 

“ I was indulging a few hasty and dismal reflections 
when Miss Martha continued — 

‘‘‘When I was young, dear Mary, I remember a 
valuable piece of advice that was given me by my ex- 
cellent friend and schoolmistress, Miss Peckham, “ If 
you are only slightly acquainted with a gentleman, 
talk of indifferent matters. If you wish to be friendly 
but not conspicuous, talk of his affairs; but only if 
you mean to be very intimate, speak of yourself ; ” ’ and 
adding, ‘Pm sure you’ll forgive me, my love,* Miss 
Martha fluttered from the table. 

“At the moment I was feeling provoked both with 
her and with myself, and did not feel so sure about the 
forgiveness as she professed to be ; but of one thing 
I felt perfectly certain. Nothing but sheer necessity 
should induce me to speak another syllable to the 
London merchant. 

“ Circumstances did not altogether favour my reso- 
lution. I scrupulously avoided so much as a look at 
Mr. Smith, though in some mysterious way I became 
conscious that he and my father were having a long 
iite-h'tete conversation in a corner. I devoted myself 


222 M/?S, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


exclusively to the rector’s wife till supper, and then I 
carefully chose the opposite side of the table to that to 
which the merchant seemed to be going. But when I 
was fairly seated, for some reason he gave up his place 
to someone else, and when it was impossible for me 
to change my seat, he took the one next to it. It was 
provoking, but I steadily resisted his attempts to talk, 
and kept m) face as much averted as possible. Once 
or twice he helped me to something on the table, but I 
barely thanked him, and never lifted my eyes to his 
face. I could not, however, avoid seeing the hand 
that helped me, and idly noticing a ring that I had 
remarked before, when he was playing. It was a fine 
blue stone, a lapis lazuli, curiously and artistically set. 
‘ Rich merchants can afford such baubles ! ' I thought. 
It was very tasteful, however, and did not look like 
English work. There was something engraven upon 
it, which did not look like English either. Was it 
Greek? I glanced at it with some curiosity, for it re- 
minded me of — but that was nonsense, a fancy that 
came because the subject was in my mind. At this 
moment the hand and ring were moved close to me 
and I looked again. 

“ It was not a fancy. There was no mistaking the 


REKA DOM. 


223 


inscription this time. I had learnt it too thoroughly — 
written it too often — loved it too well — it was Reka 
Dom, 

“ For a moment I sat in blind astonishment. Then 
the truth suddenly flashed upon me. The merchant’s 
name was the name of our predecessors at Reka Dom. 
True, it was such a common one that I had met more 
than one family of Smiths since then without dreaming 
of any connection between them and the River House. 
And yet of course it was there that the Misses Brooke 
had known him. Before our time. Which could 
he be? He was too young to be the father, and 
there was no John among the little Russians — unless 
— yes, it was the English version of one of the Russian 
names — and this was Ivan. 

‘‘It crowned my misfortunes. What would Miss 
Martha say if she knew what had been the subject of 
our conversation? Would that that excellent rule 
which had been the guide of her young ladyhood had 
curtailed the conversational propensities of mine ! I 
thought of the three degrees of intimacy with a shudder. 
Why had we not been satisfied with discussing the 
merits of the song ? 

“ We had gone on to talk of him and his homes, and, 


224 ^mrs, overtheway^s remembrances. 


as if that were not enough, had proceeded further to 
me and mine. I got red as I sat listening to some 
civil chat from Mr. Ward the curate (eminently in the 
most innocent stage of the first degree), and trying to 
recall what we had not spoken of in connection with 
that Home which had been so beloved of both of us, 
and that Ivan whose lilies I had tended for years. 

‘‘ I grew nearly frantic as I thought that he must 
think that I had known who he was, and wildly indig- 
nant with the fancy for small mysteries which had kept 
Miss Brooke from telling us whom we were going to 
meet. 

‘‘ At last the evening came to an end. I was cloak- 
ing myself in the hall when the merchant came up and 
offered his help, which I declined. But he did not go, 
and stood so that I could not help seeing a distressed 
look in his eyes, and the nervous way in which he was 
turning the blue ring upon his finger. 

‘ I have so wanted to speak to you again,’ he said, 
‘ I wanted to say ’ 

‘‘ But at this moment I caught Miss Martha’s eye in 
the parlour doorway, and dropping a hasty curtsey, I 
ran to my father. 

“ ‘ A very nice young fellow,’ my father observed, 


J^EJfTA DOM. 


22 $ 


as I took his arm outside : ^ a superior, sensible, well-in^ 
formed gentleman, such as you don’t meet with every day.’ 

I felt quite unequal to answering the remark, and 
he went on : 

“ ‘ What funny little ways your old friends have, my 
dear, to be sure. Considering how few strangers come 
to the place, it would have been natural for them to 
tell us all about the one they asked us to meet ; and 
as they had known both him and us, as tenants of 
Reka Dom, it was doubly natural that they should 
speak of him to us, and of us to him. But he told me 
that we were just the people present of whom he had 
not heard a word. He seems both fond of them and 
to appreciate their little oddities. He told me he re- 
members, as a boy, that they never would call him 
Ivan, which is as much his name as any by which a 
man was ever baptized. They thought it might give 
him a tendency to affectation to bear so singular a 
name in England. They always called him John, and 
keep up the discipline still. When he arrived yesterday 
they expressed themselves highly satisfied with the 
general improvement in him, and he said he could 
hardly help laughing as Miss Martha added, ‘ And you 
seem to have quite shaken off that little habit of affec- 


Q 


226 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


tation which — you’ll excuse me, dear John — you had 
as a boy.* He says that, to the best of his belief, his 
only approach to affectation consisted in his being 
rather absent and ungainly, and in a strong aversion 
to Mr. Brooke.' 

“ ‘ Did the old gentleman wear that frightful shade 
in his time? ' I asked. 

‘ Not always,' he says, ‘ but he looked worse with- 
out it. He told me a good deal about him that I had 
never heard. He remembered hearing it spoken of as 
a boy. It appears that the brother was very wild and 
extravagant in his youth; drank, too, I fancy, and 
gave his poor sisters a world of trouble, after breaking 
the heart of the widowed mother who had spoiled him. 
When she died the sisters lived together, and never 
faltered in their efforts to save him — never shut their 
doors against him when he would return — and paid 
his debts over and over again. He spent all his own 
fortune, and most of theirs, besides being the means of 
breaking off comfortable marriages for both. Mr. 
Smith thinks that a long illness checked his career, 
and eventually he reformed.' 

‘‘ ‘ I hope he was grateful to his poor sisters,' I said. 

“ ‘ One naturally thinks that he must have been so. 


REJiTA DOM. 


227 


but Smith’s remark was very just. He said, “ I fancy 
he was both penitent and grateful as far as he was able, 
but I believe he had been too long accustomed to their 
unqualified self-sacrifice to feel it very sensitively ! ” 
And I believe he is right. Such men not seldom 
reform in conduct if they live long enough, but few 
eyes that have been blinded by years of selfishness are 
opened to see clearly in this world.’ 

‘‘ ‘ It ought to make one very tender with the good 
ladies’ little weaknesses,’ I said, self-reproachfully ; and 
I walked home in a more peaceful state of mind. I 
forgave poor Miss Martha, also I was secretly satisfied 
that my father had found the merchant’s conversation 
attractive. It seemed to give me some excuse for my 
breach of Miss Peckham’s golden rule. Moreover, 
little troubles and offences which seemed mountains at 
Bellevue Cottage were apt to dwindle into very sur- 
mountable molehills with my larger-minded parents. 
I was comparatively at ease again. My father had 
evidently seen nothing unusual in my conduct, so I 
hoped that it had not been conspicuous. Possibly I 
might never meet Mr. Smith any more. I rather 
hoped not. Life is long, and the world wide, and it is 
sometimes possible to lose sight of people with whom 


228 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


one has disagreeable associations. And then it was a 
wholesome lesson for the future. 

“ ‘ And what was the old gentleman like ? ’ was 
Fatima’s first question, when I came upstairs. I had 
just been talking of Mr. Brooke, and no other old 
gentleman occurred to my memory at that moment. 

‘ What old gentleman ? ’ I asked dreamily. 

‘‘ ‘ Miss Martha’s old gentleman, the merchant — 
wasn’t he there, after all ? ’ 

“ I blushed at my stupidity, and at a certain feeling 
of guiltiness in connection with the person alluded to. 

‘ Oh, yes, he was there,’ I answered ; ‘ but he is 
not an old gentleman.’ 

‘‘ ‘ What is he, then ? ’ Fatima asked curiously. 

‘‘ It is undoubtedly a luxury to be the bearer of a 
piece of startling intelligence, and it is well not to spoil 
the enjoyment of it by over haste. I finished unsnap- 
ping my necklace, and said, very deliberately — 

“ ‘ He is one of the little Russians.’ 

“ Fatima’s wit jumped more quickly than mine had 
done. It was she who added — 

“ ‘ Then he is Ivan. 


“ My hopes in reference to Mr. Smith were disap- 


DOM. 


229 


pointed. I had not seen the last of him. My mother 
was at this time from home, and I was housekeeper in 
her absence. It was on the morning following the 
Bellevue tea-party that my father said to me — 

‘‘ ‘ Mr. Smith is coming up to refer to a book of mine 
to-day, my dear; and I asked him to stay to dinner. 
I suppose it will be convenient ? ' 

I said, ‘ Certainly, sir.' 

‘‘ I could plead no domestic inconvenience ; but I 
thought that Mr. Smith might have gone quietly back 
to London by the early coach, and spared me the 
agitation which the prospect of seeing him again un- 
doubtedly excited. He came, however. It was the 
first visit, but by no means the last ; and he lingered 
in the town, greatly to my father's satisfaction (who 
had taken a strong fancy for him), but not, apparently, 
to that of the Misses Brooke. 

“As I afterwards found the clue to the somewhat 
strange conduct of our old friends at this time, I may 
as well briefly state how it was. 

“ When the merchant first announced to them his 
proposed business visit to the town, and his intention 
of calling on them, the good ladies (in their affection 
for me, and having a high opinion of him) planned a 


230 MRS. OVERTHEIVAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


kindly little romance of which he and I were to be the 
hero and heroine, and which was to end in our happy 
marriage. With this view they arranged for our meet- 
ing at the tea-party, and avoided all mention of each 
to the other, that we might meet in the (so to speak) 
incidental way characteristic of real love stories. With 
that suspiciousness of people in general, and of young 
people in particular, which haunted Miss Martha, she 
attributed my ready acceptance of the invitation to my 
having heard of Mr. Smithes arrival, and to the unusual 
attraction of an eligible gentleman at the tea-party. 
Little did she guess the benevolent plans which on my 
part I had formed for her, and which the merchant’s 
youthful appearance had dashed to the ground. 

‘‘ It is sometimes the case, my dear Ida, that people 
who make these kind plans for their friends, become 
dissatisfied with the success of their arrangements if 
they themselves cease to be the good genii of the plot 
If, that is, matters seem likely to fall out as they wish, 
but without their assistance. It was so with the Misses 
Brooke, and especially with Miss Martha. Fully aware 
of the end which she in her own mind proposed to 
our acquaintance, my long conversation with the mer- 
chant struck her as an indelicate readiness to accept 


231 


J^EJiTA DOM, 

attentions which had matrimony in her perspective, 
and which she had designed to be the gradual result 
of sundry welhchaperoned and studiously incidental 
interviews at the cottage. And when, so far from 
thankfully accepting these incidental meetings, the 
merchant took upon himself to become an almost 
daily visitor at our house, and delayed his return to 
London far beyond the time proposed for his departure, 
the good lady’s view underwent a decided change. It 
was ‘ a pity ’ that a young man like John Smith should 
neglect his business. It was also ‘a pity’ that dear 
Mary’s mother was not at home. And when I took 
occasion casually to allude to the fact that Mr. 
Smith’s visits were paid to my father, and (with the 
exception of an occasional meal) were passed in the 
study amongst German pamphlets, my statement was 
met by kind, incredulous smiles, and supplemented 
with general and somewhat irritating observations on 
the proper line of conduct for young ladies at certain 
crises of life. Nothing could be kinder than Miss 
Martha’s intentions, and her advice might have been a 
still greater kindness if she would have spoken straight- 
forwardly, and believed what I said. As it was, I left 
off going to Bellevue Cottage, and ardently wished that 


232 MRS. OVER THE WAV'S REMEMBRANCES, 


the merchant would go back to his merchandise, and 
leave our quiet little town to its own dull peace. 

Sometimes I thought of the full-grown man whose 
intelligent face, and the faintly foreign accent of whose 
voice were now familiar in our home, — the busy mer- 
chant, the polite and agreeable gentleman. And then 
I thought of the Ivan I seemed to have known so much 
better so long ago ! The pale boy wandering by the 
water — reading in the swing — dead by that other river 
— buried beneath the lilies. Oh ! why had he lived 
to come back in this new form to trouble me ? 

‘‘One day he came to my father as usual, and I 
took the opportunity to call on my old friends. I felt 
ashamed of having neglected them, and as I knew that 
Mr. Smith was at our house, I could not be suspected 
of having hoped to meet him at theirs. But I called 
at an unfortunate moment. Miss Martha had just 
made up her mind that in the absence of my mother, 
and the absentness of my father, it was the duty of old 
friends like herself to give me a little friendly counsel. 
As she took a great deal of credit to herself for being 
‘quite candid, my dear,’ and quietly but persistently 
refused to give me credit for the same virtue, I was 
too much irritated to appreciate the kindness which led 


J^EJirA DOM. 


233 


her to undertake the task of interference in so delicate 
a matter ; and found her remarks far from palatable. 
In the midst of them, the merchant was announced. 

‘‘If I could have looked innocent it would have 
done me no good. As it was, I believe I looked very 
guilty. After sitting for a few minutes longer I got up 
to go, when to my horror the merchant rose also. The 
old ladies made no effort to detain him, but Miss 
Martha’s face spoke volumes as we left the house. 
Half mad with vexation, I could hardly help asking 
him why he was stupid enough to come away just at 
the moment I had chosen for leaving; but he fore- 
stalled the inquiry by a voluntary explanation. He 
wished to speak to me. He had something to say. 

“When he had said it, and had asked me to marry 
him, my cup was full. I refused him with a vehemence 
which must have surprised him, modest as he was, 
and rushed wildly home. 

“ For the next few days I led a life of anything but 
comfort. First as to Ivan. My impetuous refusal did 
not satisfy him, and he wrote me a letter over which I 
shed bitter tears of indescribable feeling. 

“ Then as to my father. The whole affair took him 
by surprise. He was astonished, and very much put 


234 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


out, especially as my mother was away. So far from 
its having been, as with the Misses Brooke, the first 
thing to occur to him, he repeatedly and emphatically 
declared that it was the very last thing he should have 
expected. He could neither imagine what had made 
the merchant think of proposing to me, nor what had 
made me so ready to refuse him. Then they were in 
the very middle of a crabbed pamphlet, in which Ivan’s 
superior knowledge of German had been invaluable. 
It was most inconvenient. 

‘“Why didn’t I like poor Ivan?’ 

“ Ah, my child, did I not like him I 
“ ‘ Then why was I so cross to him ? ’ 

“Indeed, Ida, I think the old ladies’ ‘ways’ were 
chiefly to blame for this. Their well-meant but disas- 
trous ways of making you feel that you were doing 
wrong, or in the wrong, over matters the most straight- 
forward and natural. But I was safe under the wing 
of my mother, before I saw Ivan again ; and — many 
as were the years he and I were permitted to spend 
together — I think I may truthfully say that I never 
was cross to him any more. 

“ ‘ What did he say in that letter that made me cry ? ’ 
“ He asked to be allowed to make himself better 





IN THE STUDY. 


Page 235 




/HE/irA DOM, 


23. S 

known to me, before I sent him quite away. And 
this developed an ingenious notion in my father’s 
brain, that no better opportunity could, from every 
point of view, be found for this, than that I should be 
allowed to sit with them in the study, whilst he and 
Ivan went on with the German pamphlet. 

“ The next call I paid at Bellevue Cottage was to 
announce my engagement, and I had some doubt of 
the reception my news might meet with. But I had 
no kinder or more loving congratulations than those 
of the two sisters. Small allusion was made to by- 
gones. But when Miss Martha murmured in my ear — 

‘‘ ‘ You’ll forgive my little fussiness and over-anxiety, 
dear Mary. One would be glad to guard one’s young 
friends from some of the difficulties and disappoint- 
ments one has known oneself ^ 1 thought of the 

past life of the sisters, and returned her kiss with 
tenderness. Doubtless she had feared that the mer- 
chant might be trifling with my feelings, and that a 
thousand other ills might happen when the little 
love affair was no longer under her careful manage- 
ment. But all ending well, was well ; and not even 
the Bellevue cats were more petted by the old ladies 
than we two were in our brief and sunny betrothal 


236 MRS, OVERTHEWAV'S REMEMBRANCES. 


‘‘Sunny, although for the most part it was winter 
time. When we would sit by the fireside in the privi- 
leged idleness of lovers, sometimes at home, some- 
times in the cottage parlour; and Ivan would tell of 
the Russian Reka Dom, and of all the winter beau- 
ties and pleasures of that other river which was for 
months a frozen highway, with gay sleighs flying, jing- 
ling over the snow roads, and peasants wrapped in 
sheepskin crossing from the country to market in the 
town. How dogs and children rolled together in 
snow so dry from intense cold that it hardly wet them 
more than sand. And how the river closed, and when 
it opened, with all the local traditions connected with 
these events; and of the stratagems resorted to to 
keep Jack Frost out of the houses, and of the stores 
laid up against the siege of the Winter King. 

“ But through the most interesting of his narratives 
Fatima’s hands were never idle. She seemed to have 
concentrated all her love for me into those beautiful 
taper fingers, which laboured ceaselessly in exquisite 
needlework on my wedding clothes. 

“And when the lilies of the valley were next in 
blossom, Ivan and I were married. 

“The blue-stoned ring was cut down to fit my 


I^EJCA DOM. 


237 


finger, and was, by my desire, my betrothal ring, and I 
gave Ivan another instead of it. Inside his was en* 
graven the inscription we had cut upon his tombstone 
at Reka Dom, — 

“‘TO IVAN.’” 

It was a long story, and Nurse had been waiting 
some little time in the old lady’s kitchen when it came 
to an end. 

“ And is Ivan ? ” Ida hesitatingly began. 

“Dead. Many years since, my child,” said the 
little old lady ; “ you need not be afraid to speak of 
him, my dear. All that is past. We used to hope 
that we should neither of us long outlive the other, 
but God willed it otherwise. It was very bitter at 
first, but it is different now. The days and hours that 
once seemed to widen our separation are now fast 
bringing us together again.” 

“ Was he about papa’s age when he died ? ” Ida 
gently asked. 

“ He was older than your father can have been, my 
*ove, I think. He was a more than middle-aged man. 
He died of fever. It was in London, but in his deli- 
rium he fancied that the river was running by the win 


238 MRS, OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


dows, and when I bathed his head he believed that 
the cooling drops were from the waters of his old 
home.*^ 

“ Didn’t he know you ? ” Ida asked, with sudden 
sympathy. 

‘‘ He knew the touch of my hands always, my dear. 
It was my greatest comfort. That, and the short time 
of perfect reason before he sank to rest. We had been 
married thirty years, and I had worn my silver wedding- 
ring with even more pride than the golden one. There 
have been lilies on the grave of the true Ivan for half 
that time, and will be, perhaps, for yet a little while, 
till I also am laid beneath them. 

‘‘So ends the story, my dear,” the little old lady 
added, after a pause. 

“I should like to know what became of the old 
landlord, please,” Ida said. 

“ If you will ask an old woman like me the further 
history of the people she knew in her youth,” said Mrs. 
Overtheway, smiling, “you must expect to hear of 
deaths. Of course he is dead many a long year since. 
We became very intimate with him whilst we were his 
tenants, and, I believe, cheered the close of his life. 
He and my father were fast friends, but it was to my 


J^jEA’A DOM. 


239 


mother that he became especially devoted. He said 
she was an exception to her sex, which from his point 
of view was a high compliment. He had unbounded 
confidence in her judgment, and, under her influence, 
eventually modified many of his peculiar habits. She 
persuaded him to allot a very moderate sum to house- 
keeping expenses, and to indulge in the economical 
luxury of a trustworthy servant. He consented to take 
into use a good suit of clothes which he possessed, 
and in these the old man was wont at last to accom- 
pany us to church, and to eat his Sunday dinner with 
us afterwards. I do not think he was an illiberal man at 
heart, but he had been very poor in his youth ( — ‘ So 
poor, ma’am,’ he said one day to my mother, ‘ that I 
could not live with honour and decency in the estate 
of a gentleman. I did not live. I starved — and bought 
books,’) — and he seemed unable to shake off the pinch- 
ing necessity of years. A wealthy uncle who had re- 
fused to help him whilst he lived, bequeathed -all his 
money to him when he died. But when late in life 
the nephew became rich, habits of parsimony were a 
second nature, and seemed to have grown chronic and 
exaggerated under the novel anxieties of wealth. He 
still ‘ starved — and bought books.’ During the last 


240 MJ^S. OVERTHEIVAY^S REMEMBRANCES, 


years of his life he consulted my mother (and, I fancy, 
other people also) on the merits of various public 
charities in the place and elsewhere ; so that we were 
not astonished after his death to learn from his will 
that he had divided a large part of his fortune amongst 
charitable institutions. With the exception of a few 
trifling legacies to friends, the rest of his money was 
divided in equal and moderate bequests to rela- 
tives. He left some valuable books to my father, 
and the bulk of his library to the city where he was 
born.” 

‘‘ Was your mother with him when he died ? ” Ida 
asked. 

She was, my dear. But, sadly enough, only at the 
very last. We were at the seaside when he was seized 
by his last illness, and no one told us, for indeed it is 
probable that few people knew. At last a letter from 
the servant announced that he was dying, and had 
been most anxious to see my mother, and she hastened 
home. The servant seemed relieved by her arrival, 
for the old gentleman was not altogether an easy patient 
to nurse. He laughed at the doctor, she said, and 
wouldn’t touch a drop of his medicine, but otherwise 
was as patient as a sick gentleman could be, and sat 


J^EJiTA DOM. 


241 


reading his Bible all the day long. It was on the bed 
when my mother found him, but his eyes were dimming 
fast. He held out his hands to my mother, and as she 
bent over him said something of which she could only 
catch three words — ‘ the true riches.’ He never spoke 
again.” 

“ Poor man ! ” said Ida : think he was very nice. 

What became of his cat ? ” 

Dead — dead — dead ! ” said the little old lady ; 
‘‘ Ida, my child, I will answer no more questions.” 

‘‘ One more, please,” said Ida ! ‘‘ where is that dear, 
dear Fatima?” 

“ No, my child, no ! Nothing more about her. Dear, 
dear Fatima, indeed ! And yet I will just tell you that 
she married, and that her husband (older even than I 
am, and very deaf) is living still. He and I are very 
fond of each other, though, having been a handsome 
man he is sensitive about his personal appearance, and 
will not use a trumpet, which I consider weak. But 
we get on very well. He smells my flowers, and smiles 
and nods to me, and says something in a voice so low 
that I can’t hear it ; and I stick a posy in his button- 
hole, and smile and nod to him, and say something in 
a voice so loud that can’t hear it ; and so we go oa 
R 


242 OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


One day in each year we always spend together, and 
go to church. The first of November.” 

“That is ?” said Ida. 

“ The Feast of All Saints, my child.” 

“ Won’t you tell me any more ? ” Ida asked. 

“ No, my dear. Not now, at any rate. Remember 
I am old, and have outlived almost all of those I loved 
in my youth. It is right and natural that death should 
be sad in your eyes, my child, and I will not make a 
tragedy of the story of Reka Dom.” 

“ Then your real name,” said Ida, as she gave the 
old lady a farewell kiss, “ is ” 

“ Mary Smith, my dear,” said Mrs. Overtheway. 

Next morning the little old lady went to church as 
usual, and Ida was at the window when she returned. 
When the child had seen her old friend into the house 
she still kept her place, for the postman was coming 
down the street, and it was amusing to watch him from 
door to door, and to see how large a bundle of letters he 
delivered at each. At Mrs. Overtheway’s he delivered 
one, a big one, and an odd curiosity about this letter 
took possession of Ida. She wished she knew what it 


REKA DOM, 


243 


was about, and from whom it came, though, on the 
face of it, it was not likely she would be much the 
wiser if she did. She was still at the window when the 
door of the opposite house was opened, and the little 
old lady came hurriedly out. She had only her cap 
upon her head, and she held an open letter in her 
hand ; the letter, it was evident. When she reached 
the little green gate she seemed to recollect herself, 
and, putting her hand to her head, went back into the 
house. Ida waited anxiously to see if she would come 
out again, and presently she appeared, this time in 
her bonnet, but still with the letter in her hand. 
She crossed the street, and seemed to be coming to 
the house. Then the bell rang, and in she came. 
Ida’s curiosity became intense, and was not lessened 
by the fact that the little old lady did not come 
to her, but stayed below talking with some one. 
The old gentleman had not returned, so it must be 
Nurse. 

At last the conversation came to an end, and Mrs. 
Overtheway came upstairs. 

She kissed Ida very tenderly, and inquired after her 
health; but though she seemed more affectionate than 
usual, Ida felt persuaded that something was the 


B44 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


matter. She drew a chair to the fire, and the old lady 
sat down, saying — 

“ May I stay a little with you, my dear ? 

“ Oh, thank you ! said Ida, and put a footstool for 
♦he old lady’s feet. 

Mrs. Overtheway stroked her head tenderly for 
some time in silence, and then said, in a gentle 
voice — 

I have something to tell you, my dear.” 

‘‘Another story?” Ida asked. “Oh, thank you, if 
it is another story.” 

The old lady was silent, but at last she said, as if to 
herself — 

“Perhaps best so,” and added: “Yes, my love, I 
will tell you a story.” 

Ida thanked her warmly, and another pause en- 
sued. 

“ I hardly know where to begin, or what to tell you 
of this story,” said the little old lady at last, seeming 
to falter for the first time in her Scharazad-like powers 
of narration. 

“ Let it be about a Home, please ; if you can,” said 
Ida. 

“ A home I” said the old lady, and strangely enough, 


REKA DOM, 


245 


she seemed more agitated than when she had spol^ en 
of Reka Dom — ‘‘ It should have begun with a broken 
home, but it shall not. It should end with a united 
home, God willing. A home 1 I must begin with a 
far-away one, a strange one, on the summit of high 
cliffs, the home of fearless, powerful creatures, white- 
winged like angels.” 

‘‘ It’s a fairy tale,” said Ida. 

‘‘No, my child, it is true.” 

“ It sounds like a fairy tale,” Ida said. 

“ It shall be a tale of that description if you like,” 
said the old lady, after a pause, “ but, as I said, the 
main incidents are true.” 

“And the white-winged creatures?” Ida asked. 

Were they fairies ?” 

“No, my love; birds. But if to see snowy alba- 
trosses with their huge white wings wheeling in circles 
about a vessel sailing in mid ocean be anything like 
what I have read of and heard described, fairyland 
could hardly show anything more beautiful and im- 
pressive.” 

“Do they fly near ships then?” Ida asked. 

“Yes, my child. I remember my husband de- 
scribing them to me as he had once seen them in 


246 MJ^S, OVERTHEIVAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


southern seas. He said that when he saw them, great, 
white, and majestic, holding no intercourse with any- 
one on board the ship, and yet spreading their wings 
above her day and night for hundreds of miles over 
the ocean, with folded feet, the huge white pinions, 
except for an occasional flap, outstretched in steady 
sail, never resting, and seemingly never weary, they 
looked like guardian angels keeping watch over the 
crew.” 

“ I wonder if they are sorry for the ships that go 
down ? ” said Ida, thoughtfully. 

Mrs. Overtheway took her liand. 

‘‘ Do you think it unkind in me to talk of ships, my 
love?” she asked. 

“No, no, no!” Ida exclaimed, “I don’t mmdyour 
talking about it. I wish I could talk to the birds that 
saw Papa’s ship go down, if there were any, and ask 
them how it was, and if he minded it much, and if he 
remembered me. I used to wish I had been with him, 
and one night I dreamed about it ; but when the water 
touched me, I was frightened, and screamed, and 
woke; and then I was glad I hadn’t been there, for 
perhaps he wouldn’t have loved me so much if he had 
seen that I wasn’t brave.” 


REKA DOM, 


247 


The little old lady kissed her tenderly. 

‘‘And now the story, please/^ said Ida, after a 
pause. 

And Mrs. Overtheway began the following story. 



KERGUELEN’S LAND. 


• Down in the deep, with freight and crew. 
Past any help she lies, 

And never a bale has come to shore 
Of all thy merchandise. 

For cloth o* gold and comely frieze,’ 
Winstanley said, and sigh’d. 

For velvet coif, or costly cost. 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

* O thou, brave skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mariners bold and true. 

Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you.* *’ 


“Winstanley** (Jean Ingelow), 


KERGUELEN’S LAND. 


F ather Albatross had been out all day, and 
was come home to the island which gives its 
name to this story. He had only taken a short flight, 
for his wife was hatching an egg, and he kept com- 
paratively near the island where her nest was situated. 
There was only one egg, but parental affection is not 
influenced by numbers. There is always love enough 
for the largest family, and everything that could be 
desired in an only child, and Mother Albatross was as 
proud as if she had been a hen sitting on a dozen. 

“ The Father Albatross was very considerate. Not 
only did he deny himself those long flights which he 
and his mate had before so greatly enjoyed, but he 
generally contrived to bring back from his shorter 
trips some bits of news for her amusement. Their 
island home lay far out of the common tra,ck of ships. 


252 AIRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCER. 


but sometimes he sighted a distant vessel, and he 
generally found something to tell of birds or fish, 
whales or waterspouts, icebergs or storms. When 
there was no news he discussed the winds and waves, 
as we talk of the weather and the crops. 

“ Bits of news, like misfortunes, are apt to come 
together. The very day on which the egg hatched, 
Father Albatross returned from his morning flight so 
full of what he had seen, that he hardly paid any at- 
tention to his mate’s announcement of the addition to 
his family. 

‘“Could you leave the nest for a quarter of an 
hour, my dear?’ he asked. 

“ ‘ Certainly not,’ said Mother Albatross ; ‘ as I have 
told you, the egg is hatched at last’ 

“ ‘ These things always happen at the least conve- 
nient moments,’ said the father bird. ‘ There’s a ship 
within a mere wing-stretch, untold miles out of her 
course, and going down. I came away just as she 
was sinking, that you might have a chance of seeing 
her. It is a horrible sight’ 

“ ‘ It must be terrible to witness,’ she replied, ‘ and 
I would give worlds to see it; but a mother’s first 
duty is the nest, and it is quite impossible for me to 


KERGUELEN^ S LAND. 


253 


move. At the same time I beg that you will return, 
and see whatever there is to be seen.* 

‘‘ ‘ It is not worth while/ he answered ; ‘ there was 
not a moment to lose, and by this time she must be 
at the bottom with all belonging to her.* 

“‘Could none of them fly away?* the Mother Al- 
batross asked. 

“‘No men have wings,’ replied her mate, ‘nor, for 
that matter, fins or scales either. They are very 
curious creatures. The fancy they have for wandering 
about between sea and sky, when Nature has not en- 
abled them to support themselves in either, is truly 
wonderful. Go where you will over the ocean you 
meet men, as you meet fish and birds. Then if any- 
thing disables these ships that they contrive to go 
about in, down they go, and as the men can neither 
float nor fly, they sink to the bottom like so many 
stones.’ 

“‘Were there many on the ship you saw?’ the 
mother bird asked. 

“ ‘ More than one likes to see drowned in a batch,’ 
said Father Albatross ; ‘ and I feel most sorry for the 
captain. He was a fine fellow, with bright eyes and 
dark curly plumage, and would have been a handsome 


254 MRS, OVERTHEWAY*S REMEMBRANCES. 


creature if he had had wings. He was going about 
giving orders with desperate and vain composure, and 
wherever he went there went with him a large dog 
with dark bright curls like his own. I have seen the 
ship before, and I know the dog. His name is Carlo.' 
He is the captain’s property, and the ship’s pet. 
Usually he is very quiet, and sometimes, when it 
blows, he is ill ; but commonly he was on deck, blink- 
ing with the most self-sufficient air you can imagine. 
However, to-day, from the moment that danger was 
imminent, he seemed to be aware of it, and to have 
only one idea on the subject, to keep close to his 
master. He got in front of him as he moved about, 
sat down at his feet when he stood still, jumped on 
him when he shouted his orders, and licked his hands 
when he seized the ropes. In fact, he was most 
troublesome. But what can you expect of a creature 
that requires four legs to go about with, and can’t rise 
above the earth even with these, and doesn’t move as 
many yards in a day as I go miles in an hour ? He 
can swim, but only for a certain length of time. How- 
ever, he is probably quiet enough now; and perhaps 
some lucky chance has rolled him to his master’s feet 
below the sea.’ 


KERGUELEN'S LAND. 


355 


“ ‘ Have men no contrivance for escaping on these 
occasions ? * the mother bird inquired. 

‘ They have boats, into which they go when the 
ship will hold them no longer. It is much as if you 
should put out the little one to fly-in a storm, against 
which your own wings failed.^ 

“‘Perhaps the boats are in good order when the 
ship is not,* said Mother Albatross, who had a practi- 
cal gift. ‘ Were there boats to this one ? * 

“ ‘ There were. I saw one lowered, and quickly 
filled with men, eager to snatch this last chance of 
life.’ 

“ ‘ Was the captain in it ? * she asked. 

“ ‘ No. He stayed on the ship and gave orders. 
The dog stayed with him. Another boat was lowered 
and filled just as the ship went down.* 

“ ‘ Was the captain in it ? * 

“‘Again, no. He stayed with the vessel and some 
others with him. They were just sinking as I came 
for you. With the last glance I gave I saw the cap- 
tain standing quite still near the wheel. The dog was 
sitting on his feet. They were both looking in one 
direction — away over the sea. But why should you 
distress yourself ? It is all over long since. Think of 


256 MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


the little one, and let us be thankful that we belong to 
a superior race. We might have been born without 
wings, like poor sailors.' 

“ ‘ I cannot help grieving for the captain,' said 
Mother Albatross. ‘ When you spoke of his bright 
eyes and handsome plumage I thought of you ; and 
how should I feel if you were to die ? I wish he had 
gone in the boats,' 

“ ‘ I doubt if he would have fared better,' said the 
father bird. ‘The second boat must have been 
swamped in the sinking of the ship; and it is far 
from probable that the other will get to land.' 

“ ‘ Nevertheless, I hope you will fly in that direction 
to-morrow,' she said, ‘and bring me word whether 
there are any traces of the catastrophe.' 

“The following morning Father Albatross set forth 
as he was desired. The ship had foundered quite 
near to the other side of the island, and including a 
little excursion to see if the first boat were still above 
water, he expected to be back very shortly. 

“ He returned even sooner than the Mother Alba- 
tross had hoped, and descended to the side of their 
nest with as much agitation as his majestic form was 
capable of displaying. 


KERGUELEN'S LAND. 


257 


‘‘ ‘ Wonders will never cease ! ’ he exclaimed, 
*' What do you think are on the island ? ^ 

‘‘ ‘ I couldn^t guess if I were to try from now till 
next hatching season/ said his mate ; ‘ and I beg you 
will not keep me in suspense. I am not equal to the 
slightest trial of the nerves. It is quite enough to be 
a mother.’ 

“ ‘ The captain and one or two more men are here/ 
said the Albatross. ‘ What do you think of that ? You 
will be able to see him for yourself, and to show the 
youngster what men are like into the bargain. It’s 
very strange how they have escaped; and that lazy, 
self-sufficient dog is with them.’ 

‘‘ ‘ I cannot possibly leave our young one at present,’ 
said the Mother Albatross, ‘ and he certainly cannot 
get so far. It will be very provoking if the men 
leave the island before I can see them.’ 

“ ‘ There is not much fear of that,’ her mate an 
swered. ‘ A lucky wave has brought them to shore, 
but it will take a good many lucky waves to bring a 
ship to carry them home.’ 

Father Albatross was right ; but his mate saw the 
strangers sooner than she expected. Her nest, though 
built on the ground, was on the highest point of the 


258 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


island, and to this the shipwrecked men soon made 
their way; and there the Mother Albatross had 
ample chance of seeing the bright eyes of the captain 
as they scanned the horizon line with keen anxiety. 
Presently they fell upon the bird herself. 

“ ‘ What splendid creatures they are ! * he said to 
his companion; ‘and so grandly feailcss. I was 
never on one of these klands where they breed before. 
What a pity it is that they cannot understand one 1 
That fellow there, who is just stretching his noble 
wings, might take a message and bring us help.* 

“ ‘ He is a fine creature,’ said the Mother Albatross, 
peeping at the captain from her nest ; ‘ that is, he would 
be if he had wings, and could speak properly, instead 
of making that unmusical jabbering like a monkey.* 

“ ‘ I would give a good deal to one of them for a 
report of the first boat,* the captain went on. ‘ Heaven 
knows I would be content to die here if I could know 
that it was safe. But I’m afraid — I’m afraid; oh! dear !’ 

“ And the captain paced up and down, the other 
consoling him. 

“ ‘ He doesn’t seem as tame as one might expect,* 
said the Mother Albatross, ‘he’s so restless. But 
possibly he is hungry.* 


KERGUELEN^S LAND, 


259 


“ Truly it was a great amusement for the mothei 
bird to watch the strangers from her nest, and to 
question her mate on their peculiarities. 

‘‘ ‘ What is he doing now ? ’ she asked on one occa- 
sion, when the captain was reading a paper which he 
had taken from the note-book in his pocket 

‘ That is a letter,’ said the Father Albatross. ‘And 
from the look of it I gather that, like ourselves, he has 
got a young one somewhere, wherever his nest may 
be.’ 

“ ‘ How do you gather that ? * his mate inquired. 

“ ‘ Because the writing is so large,* answered the 
Father Albatross. ‘ It is one of the peculiarities of 
these creatures that the smaller they are the larger 
they write. That letter is from a young one ; probably 
his own.* 

“ ‘ Very remarkable indeed,* said the Mother Alba- 
tross. ‘ And what is he doing now ? * 

“ ‘ Now he is writing himself,’ said her mate ; ‘ and if 
you observe you will see my statement confirmed. See 
how much smaller he writes ! ’ 

“The captain had indeed torn a sheet from his 
note-book, and was busy scribbling upon his knees. 
Whether the sight of papers was a familiar memory 


26 o MRS, OVERTBEWATS REMEMBRANCES. 


with Carlo, or whether he was merely moved by one 
of those doggish impulses we so little understand, it is 
impossible to say; but when the captain began to 
write, Carlo began to wag his tail, and he wagged it 
without pause or weariness till the captain had finished, 
keeping his nearest eye half open, and fixed upon 
the paper and the captain's moving hand. Once he 
sat up on his haunches and put his nose on the 
letter. 

‘‘ ‘ That is right, old fellow, kiss it,’ said the captain, 
‘ I am just telling her about you. Heaven send she 
may ever read it, poor child ! ’ 

“ At this Carlo became so frantic, and so persistent 
in pushing his nose on to the paper, that the captain 
was fain to pocket his writing materials, and have a 
game at play with the ‘ ship's dog,’ in which the latter 
condescendingly joined for a few minutes, and then 
lay down as before, shutting his eyes with an air which 
seemed to imply — 

* I see, poor fellow, you don’t understand me.’ 

“The hardships endured by this small remnant of 
the ship’s company were not very great. They managed 
to live. The weather was fine, and they did not at 
first trouble themselves about any permanent shelter. 


KERGUELEWS LAND, 


261 


Perhaps, too, in spite of their seaman^s knowledge of 
the position they were in, some dim hope of a ship 
out of her course as they had been, picking them off, 
buoyed them up with the fancy that ‘ it was not worth 
while.* But no ship appeared ; and they built them- 
selves a hut near the albatross’s nest, and began to 
talk of other seasons, and provision for the future. 
They kept a look-out by turns through the daylight, 
and by night when the moon and stars made the dis- 
tance visible. Every morning the sun rising above 
the sea met the captain’s keen eyes scanning the hori- 
zon, and every evening that closed a day’s fruitless 
watch, the sun going down saw the captain’s brown 
hands clasped together as he said, ‘God’s will be 
done ! ’ 

“So days became weeks, and weeks ripened into 
months, and Carlo became used to his new home, and 
happy in it, and kept watch over his master, and took 
his ease as usual. But the men’s appearance changed, 
and their clothes began to look shabby. In the first 
place they were wearing out, and secondly they seemed 
— as we say — to be ‘ getting too large ’ for them, and 
to hang loosely and untidily upon their gaunt frames. 
The captain’s eyes looked larger and sadder, and hia 


262 MRS. OVERTHEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


voice grew hollow at sunset, and threads of white 
began to show among his dark curls, and increased in 
number day by day. 

‘‘ ‘ His plumage will be as white as your own very 
soon,' said the Mother Albatross. * I suppose it's the 
climate that does it.' 

** * He is getting older,' said her mate : ‘ men, like 
ourselves, get white as they get old.' 

‘‘ ‘ But he has been here so short a time,' said Mother 
Albatross. 

“ ‘ He is so much the older, however,' said the father 
bird, and his mate said no more ; for she knew by the 
tone of his voice when he had got to the end of his 
available information on any subject, and that beyond 
this point he did not like to be pressed. 

^‘‘It's hard, it's very hard. Captain, and I can't 
submit as you do,' said one of the men one day. He 
and the captain were sitting side by side at the look- 
out, their elbows on their knees, and their chins upon 
their hands. 

‘‘ ' And yet it's harder for me than for you,' said the 
captain ‘One must die some day. It's not that 
And you are a single man. Barker, without ties.' 

“ The man stooped down, and taking one of Carlo's 


KERGUELEN*S LAND. 


263 


long ears in his hand, played absently with it, as he 
said — 

‘‘ ‘ No, sir. I am not married, it^s true, and have no 
children. I feel for you, sir, from my heart. But, in 
a little house just out of Plymouth, that, God above 
knows, I can see this moment as clearly as I see you, 
there^s a girl that has either forgotten me, or is break- 
ing as good a heart as ever beat in woman’s breast for 
the man that should have been her husband, and that’s 
fast bound here upon a rock with sea-birds. The Lord 
knows best. Captain, but it comes hard. We all have 
our troubles, sir.’ 

‘‘The captain laid his hand upon his shouldei. 

“ ‘ Forgive me,’ he said. ‘ God comfort you 1 God 
bless you ! ’ And, rising hurriedly, he went forward, 
the big tears breaking over his cheeks, and sea and 
sky dancing together before his eyes. 

“ ‘ What do you dream of at night. Barker?’ said the 
captain, on another day. 

“ ‘ Home, sir,’ said Barker. 

“ ‘ Strange ! ’ said the captain. ‘ So do I. In all the 
time we have been here, I have never once dreamed 
of this isl ind, or of our day’s work, nor even of seeing 
a sail I dream of England night after night.’ 


264 MRS, OVER'JHEWArS REMEMBRANCES. 


‘ It^s the same with myself, sir,^ said Barker. ‘Tm 
in Plymouth half my time, I may say. And off and 
on I dream of my father’s old home in Surrey.^ 

“‘Are the men going to change their feathers, do 
you think? ’ the Mother Albatross inquired of her mate. 
‘They have a most wretched appearance. Only the 
dog looks like himself.’ (The first excitement of pity 
and curiosity had subsided, and the good couple were 
now naturally inclined to be critical.) 

“ ‘ I detest that dog,’ said Father Albatross. ‘ His 
idleness and arrogance make me quite sick. I think 
I want exercise, too, and I mean to have a good flight 
to-day;’ and, spreading his broad wings, the bird 
sailed away. 

“ His excursion did not quite dispel his irritability 
When he returned, he settled down by the captain, who 
was sitting listlessly, as usual, with Carlo at his feet. 

“ ‘ If you would only exert yourself,’ began Father 
Albatross, ‘something might come of it. You are 
getting as bad as the dog. Spread out those arms of 
yours, and see what you can do with them ! If you 
could only fly a matter of a few miles, you would 
see a sail — and that’s more than we had any reason 
to expect.’ 


KERGUELEN^ S LAND, 


265 


‘ What can be the matter with the birds to-day ? ' 
said the captain, who was in rather an irritable mood 
himself. ‘ They are silent enough generally ^ — for th^ 
voice of the albatross is rarely heard at sea. 

“ ‘ Move your arms, I tell you ! ’ croaked the alba- 
tross. ‘ Up and down — so ! — and follow me.^ 

‘‘ ‘ I shall have the dog going at them next,’ mut- 
tered the captain. ‘ Come along. Carlo.’ And turn- 
ing his back on Father Albatross, he moved away. 

He doesn’t understand you,’ said the Mother 
Albatross, who endeavoured, as is proper, to soothe 
her mate’s irritability, and make peace. ‘ Couldn’t 
you take a message to the ship yourself? It is nothing 
to your magnificent wings, and it is not his fault, poor 
creature, that he is not formed like you.’ 

‘‘ ‘ You speak very sensibly, my dear,’ said Father 
Albatross ; and once more he took flight over the sea. 

“ But he returned in even worse mood than before. 

“ ‘ Nothing can equal the stupidity of human beings,’ 
he observed. ‘ I addressed myself to the captain. 
“ There’s an island with shipwrecked men on it a few 
miles to the north-east,” said I. “ We shall see land 
in about ten days, ma’am,” says the captain to a lady 
on deck, ‘‘There’s as big a fool as yourself wrecked 


266 MRS, OVERTHEIVAY'S REMEMBRANCES, 


on an island north-east by north/’ I cried. If you 
had the skill of a sparrow you could see it with your 
own eyes in five minutes.” ‘‘ It’s very remarkable,” 
said the captain, ‘‘ I never heard one of those albatross 
make a sound before.” “ And never will again,” said 
I ; ‘‘ it’s a waste of time to talk to you. It won’t take 
long to put you and yours under water like the rest.” 
And away I came.’ 

‘ I don’t understand the cry of human beings my- 
self,’ said his mate, ‘and I’m rather glad I do not; it 
would only irritate me. Perhaps he did not under- 
stand you.’ 

“ ‘ They are all stupid alike,’ said the father bird ; 
‘ but I have done my best, and shall not disturb my- 
self any more.’ 

“The captain watched till sunset, and folded his 
hands, and bent his head as usual, and at last lay 
down to sleep. He dreamt of England, and of home 
— of a home that had been his long since, of a young 
wife, dead years ago. He dreamt that he lay, at early 
morning, in a sunny room in a little cottage where 
they had lived, and where, in summer, the morning 
sun awoke them not much later than the birds. He 
dreamt that his wife was by him, and that she thought 


KERGUELEN'S LAND, 


267 


that he was asleep, and that, so thinking, she put hei 
arms round his neck to awaken him — that he lay still, 
and pretended to be slumbering on, and that, so lying, 
he saw her face bright with an unearthly beauty and 
ner eyes fixed on him with such intensity of expression 
that they held him like a spell. Then he felt her 
warm face come near to his, and she kissed his cheeks, 
and he heard her say, ‘ Wake up, my darling, I have 
something to show you.’ Again she repeated vehe- 
mently, ‘Awake ! Awake 1 Look ! Look ! ’ and then he 
opened his eyes. 

“ He was lying at the look-out, and Carlo was licking 
his face. It was a dream, and yet the voice was strong 
and clear in his ears, ‘Awake! Awake! Look! Look !’ 

“ A heavier hand was on his shoulder, and Barker’s 
rough voice (hoarser than usual), repeated the words 
of his dream. 

“ The captain’s eyes followed the outstretched hand 
to the horizon ; and then his own voice grew hoarse, 
as he exclaimed — 

“ ‘ My God ! it is a sail ! ’ 

Ida was not leaning on the little old lady’s footstool 
now. She sat upright, her pale face whiter than its wont 


268 MRS, OVER THE WAV'S REMEMBRANCES, 


^ Did the ship take them away?” she asked 
eagerly. 

“ Yes, my dear. Their signals were seen, and the 
ship took them home to their friends who had believed 
them to be dead.” 

“ Do people who have been drowned — I mean who 
have been thought to be drowned — ever come home 
really the child asked. 

‘‘Yes, really. Ida, my dear, I want you to remem- 
ber that, as regards the captain and the crew, this is a 
true story.’ 

Ida clasped her hands passionately together. 

“Oh, Mrs. Overtheway ! Do you think papa will 
ever come home ? ” 

“ My child ! my dear child ! ” sobbed the little old 
lady. “ I think he will.” .... 

“ And he is alive — he is coming home 1 ” Ida cried, 
as she recounted Mrs. Overtheway’s story to Nurse, 
who knew the principal fact of it already. “ And she 
told it to me in this way not to frighten me. I did 
cry and laugh though, and was very silly ; but she 
said I must not be foolish, but brave like a captain’s 
daughter, and that I ought to thank God for being so 


KERGUELEN^S LAND, 


269 


good to me, when the children of the other poor men 
who died will never have their fathers back in this 
world : and I am thankful, so thankful ! Only it is like 
a mill going in my head, and I cannot help crying. 
And papa wrote me a long letter when he was on the 
island, and he sent it to Mrs. Overtheway because 
Uncle Garbett told him that I was fond of her, and 
that she would tell me nicely, and she was to read it, 
and to give it to me when she had told me. And it is 
such a lovely letter, with all about the island, and poor 
Barker, and dear old Carlo, and about the beautiful 
birds too, only Mrs. Overtheway made up a great deal 
of -that herself. And please, Nursey, take off my black 
frock and never let me see it again, for the captain is 
really coming home, and oh ! how I wish he would 
come ! ” 

The poor child was terribly excited, but her habits 
of obedience stood her in good stead, for though she 
was vehemently certain that she could not possibly go 
to sleep, in compliance with Nurse’s wishes, she went 
to bed, and there at last slept heavily and long; so 
that when she awoke there was only just time to dress 
and be ready to meet her father. She was putting 
out her treasures for him to look at — the carved fans 


270 MRS, OVERTHEIVAV'S REMEMBRANCES, 


and workboxes, the beads and handkerchiefs and 
feathers, the new letter and the old one — when the 
Captain came. 

A week after the postman had delivered the letter 
which contained such wonderful news for Ida, he 
brought another to Mrs. Overtheway’s green gate, 
addressed in the same handwriting — the Captain’s. 
It was not from the Captain, however, but from Ida. 

My dear, dear Mrs. Overtheway, 

“We got here on Saturday night, and are so happy. 
Papa says when will you come and see us ? I have got 
a little room to myself, and I have got a glass case 
under which I keep all the things that Papa ever sent 
me, and his letters. I bought it with part of a sove- 
reign Uncle Garbett gave me when I came away. Do 
you know he was so very kind when I came away. He 
kissed me, and said, ‘ God bless you, my dear ! You 
are a good child, a very good child ; ’ and you know it 
was very kind of him, for I don’t think I ever was 
good somehow with him. But he was so kind it made 
me cry, so I couldn’t say anything, but I gave him a 
great many kisses, for I did not want him to know I 
love Papa the best. Carlo will put his nose on my 


KERGUELEN^S LAND, 


271 


knee, and I can’t help making blots. He came with 
us in the railway carriage, and ate nearly all my sand- 
wiches. When he and Papa roll on the hearthrug 
together, I mix their curls up and pretend I can’t tell 
which is which. Only really Papa’s have got some 
grey hairs in them : we know why. I always kiss the 
white hairs when I find them, and he says he thinks I 
shall kiss the colour into them again. He is so kind ! 
I said I didn’t like Nurse to wear her black dress now^ 
and she said it was the best one she had, and she must 
wear it in the afternoon ; so Papa said he would get 
us all some bright things, for he says English people 
dress in mud-colour, while people who live in much 
sunnier, brighter countries wear gay clothes. So we 
went into a shop this morning, and I asked him to get 
my things all blue, because it is his favourite colour. 
But be said he should choose Nurse’s things himself. 
So he asked for a very smart dress, and the man asked 
what kind ; and I said it was for a nurse, so he brought 
out a lot of prints, and at last Papa chose one with a 
yellow ground and carnations on it. He wanted very 
much to have got another one with very big flowers, 
but the man said it was meant for curtains, not for 
dresses, so I persuaded h^'ra not to get it ; but he says 


272 MRS, OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. 


now he wishes he had, as it was much the best. Then 
he got a red shawl, and a bonnet ribbon of a kind of 
green tartan. Nurse was very much pleased, but she 
said they were too smart by half. But papa told her 
it was because she knew no better, and had never 
seen the parrots in the East Indian Islands. Yester- 
day we all went to church. Carlo came too, and 
when we got to the porch, Papa put up his hand, 
and said, ‘ Prayers, sir ! ’ and Carlo lay down and 
stayed there till we came out. Papa says that he used 
to do so when he was going* to say prayers on board 
ship, and that Carlo always lay quietly on deck till the 
service was over. Before we went to church Papa gave 
me a little parcel sealed up, to put in the plate. I 
asked him what it was, and he said it was a thank- 
offering. Before one of the prayers the clergyman said 
something. I don^t quite remember the w ords, but it 
began, ‘ A sailor desires to thank God — ^ and oh ! I 
knew who it was, and I squeezed his hand very tight, 
and I tried to pray every word of that prayer, only 
once I began to think of the island — but I did try 1 
And indeed I do try to be very, very thankful, for I 
am so very happy ! Papa got a letter from Barker this 
morning, and we are going out to choose him a wed- 


KERGUELEN^S LAND, 


273 


ding present. He sent a photograph of the girl he is 
going to marry, and I was rather disappointed, for I 
thought she . would be very lovely, only, perhaps, rather 
sad-looking ; but she doesn’t look very pretty, and is 
sitting in rather a vulgar dress, with a photograph book 
in her hand. Her dress is tartan, and queer-looking 
about the waist, you know, like Nurse’s, and it is 
coloured in the picture, and her brooch is gilt. Papa 
laughs, and says Barker likes colour, as he does ; and 
he says he thinks she has a nice face, and he knows 
she is very good, and very fond of Barker, and that 
Barker thinks her beautiful. He didn’t write before 
he went to see her, like Papa. He just walked up to 
the house, and found her sitting at the window with 
his photograph in her hand. She said she had been 
so restless all day, she could do nothing but sit and 
look at it. Wasn’t it funny? She had been very ill 
with thinking he was dead, and Barker says she nearly 
died of the joy of seeing him again. Papa sends you 
his love, and I send lots and lots of mine, and millions 
of kisses. And please, please come and see us if you 
can, for I miss you every morning, and I do love you, 
and am always your grateful and affectionate 

“ Ida.” 


T 


274 MKS. 0VER7'HEWAY^S REMEMBRANCES. 


‘‘P.S. I am telling Papa all your stories by bits. 
And do you know he went to sleep whilst I was telling 
him Mrs, Moss!^' 

Chim ! chime ! chim ! chime ! chim ! chime ! 

The story is ended, but the bells still call to Morn- 
ing Prayer, and life goes on. The little old lady comes 
through the green gate, and looks over the way, but 
there is no face at that window now : something in it 
made her start for an instant, but it is only a looking- 
glass, for the smart toilette-table has been brought 
back to the window where Ida used to kneel, and the 
nursery is a spare bedroom once more. That episode 
in this dull house in the quiet street is over and gone 
by. The old lady thinks so rather sadly as she goes 
where the bells are calling. The pale, eager, loving 
little face that turned to her in its loneliness, now 
brightens a happy home ; but the remembrance of it 
is with the little old lady still, pleasant as the re- 
membrance of flowers when winter has come. Yes, 
truly, not the least pleasant of Mrs. Overtheway s 
Remembrances. 


MUS. EWING-’S STORIES. 



“ What’s your name, boy ? ” — Page 247. 


JAN OF THE WINDMILL. 

A STORY OF THE PLAINS. 

By Mrs. Ewing. Price, 50 cents. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

BOSTON 


MRS. EWING’S BOOK FOR BOYS. 



WE AND THE WORLD. 

By Mrs. Ewing. Price, 50 cents. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

BOSTON- 


MRS. EWma’S GIRL-BOOK. 



SIX TO SIXTEEN. A Story for Girls. By Mrs. 
Ewing. Price, 50 cents. 


ROBERTS BROl'HERS, Publishers, 

Boston*, 



MRS. EWING'S STORIES. 



A GREAT EMERGENCY, 

AND OTHER STORIES. 

By Mrs. Ewing. Price, 50 cents. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

BOSTON., 









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